Always
by Awhoha
Summary: Rome. 72 B.C, a blonde man of the North by the name of John Watson is enslaved to a man called Sherlock Modius Holmes. SLASH. John/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**So I had this story stuck in my head for some time... so here it is. Please forgive any grammatical and historical mistakes. Enjoy and PLEASE don't forget to review... **

**;)**

**-Awhoha**

The market place stank of sweat. Goats whinnied as their masters led them through the cobbled streets; women chattered amongst themselves with expensive silk fans; and stalls were filled with exotic goods. Men talked politics as they sat on the high stone steps while the women shopped the streets. Birds nestled themselves on the rooftops surveying the crowds surging below—men fiddled with their garments: togas, cloaks, and tunics while others walked with nothing but their subligaculum. Golden eyes flashed as both men and women turned to stare at the new arrivals stepping off the docks. Chains clinked as a number of men were shoved forwards deep into the streets, herded like animals. The captives were dragged into an open square, forced unto their knees, their feet dusted with white chalk. The golden eyes burned as a tall thin serpent looking man thrust a spear into the earth. A bell sounded, rising through the market like a signal. Birds flew from the rooftops, spiraling across the clear blue sky.

The golden eyed captive snarled and was rewarded with a punch to the gut as he was dragged to an opposite corner of the square, followed by two others. A crowd soon gathered; men interested in spotting the strong and the healthy while the women gossiped by their husbands sides. The golden eyes that watched the roar of people belonged to a man of medium height, golden hair pasted to his sweat streaked brow. He firm muscled chest rose as he struggled to breathe. His hands where tied tightly behind him, the leather straps cutting into his flesh. Thin scars ran over his chest and back—marks from wars won. He was a man of thirty that had looked upon many a battle, the scars of war failing to diminish his beauty. He watched as people shouted, biding upon the men before them. The quaestor, supervised by the aediles, cried out to the public. The golden eyed man watched as one by one the men were sold off, following their new masters like dogs. As the last man was auctioned off, a group of soldiers grabbed the blonde haired man, pulling at the collar around his neck. The man stumbled towards the podium, his feet dragging in the sand. As soon as he was in view of the crowd, the shouting began. His chin was forced up, his legs spread. He watched as the people of Rome began holding their money high in the air, their eyes drinking in the sight of him. He forced himself to stand tall, not to be made a mockery. He tried to ignore the churning of his gut as mens eyes lazily followed his tone body; women stealing glances at him from behind their fans. The golden eyes narrowed—the heat of the sun beating down upon him. He licked dry lips, the salt stinging his tongue. The blonde once again studied the crowd, golden orbs like the sun, falling upon a set of starting grey-green. He stared, his mouth set in a firm line as the man—younger by five to eight years, watched, lips quirking into a thin lipped smile. Suddenly the dark haired man shouted, sending the crowd into a buzz of discussion. A voice then shouted, leaving the dark haired man looking amused. Something in the smile of the youth warned the golden eyed man not to get near. However, soldiers retrieved the end of his collar, ushering him closer to the man who had just made his purchase.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

" I don't understand why I have to be the one to go to the market. It's uneventful, dull, boring." The dark haired youth drawled as his mass of dark curls bounced around his head. He rearranged the cotton-silk robe over his shoulder, his bare skin drinking in the warmth of the sun. For a man living in Rome, he was highly pale but he didn't seem to care. His long slender fingers worked at the gold clasp threaded through the dark blue cloth.

"Sherlock. I can't buy you everything you need, whenever you desire it. Besides, I have to attend the Senate."

Sherlock turned his frown toward his older brother, watching as Mycroft Modius Holmes stood tall beside the water bowl. The older sibling dipped his hands in the water decorated with red rose petals before taking the cloth from a female slave. Mycroft raised a perfect brow at the younger Modius Holmes, silently ordering him away. Huffing with indignation, Sherlock took off into the streets alone, cursing Mycroft until finding it difficult to draw breathe.

He drifted through the streets, eyes calculating. He observed the people striding through thr streets as if they had important lives. The darker haired boy idly picked at goods—finding nothing to his liking. He was ready to return back when he heard the sound of the bell. A new auction was about to take place. Sherlock sniffed, making his way through the crowd—His day was already boring enough as it is, might as well watch something fun.

Sherlock pushed himself to the front as the first line of new slaves were brought into the square. He studied them, finding them lacking. They were war trophies brought over from across the seas. Some looked sick, other had the look of defeat deep within their eyes. As they soon became scarce, Sherlock found himself preparing to leave, when the man was brought out from the shadows. His light coloured hair glimmered amongst the sweat on his brow, intelligent gold eyes, threatening under thick blonde lashes. A full mouth pressed themselves in defiance as his tongue snaked forward to moisten his dry lip. Sherlock found himself at awe. This man had seen war, many a battle. He had scars to prove his bravery, his victories. He was not tall, but of medium height; body perfectly toned to perfection. What caught his full thought was the strength burning in his soul that shone through those eyes that seemed to resemble gold. Sherlock heard the roar of the crowd as they became intoxicated with the rush to succeed. Never had a man so beautiful, so dangerous been for auction. Sherlock raised a hand into the air, his lungs filling up with oxygen.

"One thousand denarius!"

The crowd buzzed like a hive of angry bees. One thousand denarius was many a coin and most could not afford such a price. Sherlock smirked as the quaestor dropped his hand, finishing the bid. Sherlock watched as his new slave was brought before him, eyes boring into his own. He took the rope from the soldier, fingers wrapping around tightly.

"You are mine."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson stared as the dark haired man took the rope into pale hands; his green eyes mixed with gray gleaming as he spoke—a deep voice of foreign words, floated up into the blonde's mind. He frowned unsure what the man had said, but it had sounded pleased. John felt the pull of the cord around his neck as the youth lead him through the winding stalls. He could snap this boy's neck like a twig and escape—return back home to his people. John followed the boy, his arms burning from being bound for so long. He became vaguely aware that the youth was speaking. He tilted his head trying to focus on the strange language, watching the full lips of his new captor. As they rounded a corner, John pulled back his head, pulling the rope from the darker haired man, and then lunged. Something flashed in the man's eyes as the blonde charged forwards. With impeccable speed Sherlock twisted, throwing a punch in the man's stomach. John doubled over, his ribs screaming in protest.

"I'll have you know, slave, that I am a skilled fighter. I observed the slight bruising in your upper linea alba which is why I aimed my blow. You have slightly cracked ribs, massive cramping in both your upper and lower triceps—being bound for so long your arms must be in a lot of pain. You are mine and you are to obey me. Is that understood?"

John blinked through his lashes, his stomach seizing. Through the pain, the commanding tone were recognizable. He was not to try that again. He nodded, hoping that the man before him would understand his acceptance. The green-gray eyes seemed appeased before once again leading the blonde warrior through Rome's cobbled streets.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock led the man through the atrium, watching with hidden curiosity as the golden eyed slave looked around with cautious wonder. The ceiling rose high decorated with many colourful paintings—a large square opening towered above, allowing rain to fall down into the impluvium below; a large space to collect the water when it fell from the Heavens. A stone statue of a lion—water pouring from it's mouth, spilled into a smaller impluvium, the waters supported vast colours of petals. Sherlock rose a brow as John stilled, eyes flickering over to his own. Sherlock sniffed, before calling out for assistance. Three men and a woman, all Mycroft's slaves, appeared from behind the massive pillars.

"Find a knife to cut this man from his bonds. He is my slave and a new addition to the House of Modius."

Sherlock sank down unto the lectus—the ornate red couch that lay in the middle of the reception hall. John held still, unsure as to what his future would hold. He sensed movement to his side, crouching into a stance as a man with a similar collar approached, knife in hand. Sherlock blinked as his golden slave hissed through his lips, the sound low and threatening.

"It's alright. He means you no harm—I wish you free from your bonds."

Golden eyes darted back towards the dark haired man, body unwilling to back down. He was unsure what the man was saying, but the look in his eyes held no enmity. John slowly exhaled, allowing the other man to approach. He tensed as the bonds were severed, the leather falling to the floor. Blood rushed through, his fingers tingling painfully. He flexed, his shoulders rolling back with strength. He straightened his spine, gaze now fully trained on the man who had brought him to this strange place. Sherlock grinned, eyes sparkling.

"Let's get you washed, you smell of sweat and salt."

John raised a brow, as the dark haired youth motioned for him to follow. John reluctantly stepped forwards, his bare feet echoing along the stone. He was led into a smaller room, one with a deep square pool.

"Remove your loincloth, slave."

John bit his lip—the foreign words demanding something he could not understand. Sherlock looked at the blonde for so long, the man shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"You can't understand a word I am saying can you...but no matter. Come here."

John understood those two words, and stepped closer. His body froze, eyes narrowed as the youth stepped into his personal space, hands reaching for his cloth. Sherlock felt himself oddly warm as he undid the knot securing the dress covering up the man's cock. John didn't move as he studied the man before him, unsure as to the boy's intentions. As if being woken from a dream, Sherlock coughed, gripping John's arm within a surprisingly strong grip. John grunted as the youth motioned for him to enter the water. The blonde slipped into the bath, the sun from the roof naturally heating up the water. The warmth comforted him to his very bones, washing away the dirt and sweat. John splashed water across his chest and back, conscious of the youth watching his every action. He suddenly felt exposed, his movements stilling. He stood in the water, the sun bathing him in light as those eyes of such mystery examined every detail.

"You are perfect aren't you," Sherlock breathed. He felt as if the God Apollo, Master of Light had appeared before him. John licked his lips, the taste of salt washing away. Both men tore their gazes as one of the slaves entered the room—a fresh set of clothes placed near the baths edge. John glanced from the clothes to the youth, who nodded, a smirk adorning his lips. John took a breath before submerging himself under water. He rose—water dripping off his body like raindrops as he hoisted himself out of the bath. Sherlock found his eyes being drawn to the mans ass; the solid muscle ready to be fucked. He bit his lip as the blonde hastily wrapped his cock back within the confines of his dress. Once clothed with a loincloth and fleece leggings bound with thin strips of leather that came up to his mid thigh, John waited. Sherlock nodded, pleased. He turned around, John following him as the youth made his way through the vast home. Sherlock strode over to a vast balcony, eyes focusing on the scene below. John eased forwards, before following the youths gaze. Men shouted as they fought against each other—wooden shields and weapons smashing against the other. They lunged, twisted and leaped; each trying to gain the upper hand. Sherlock smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

"You will be my gladiator."


	2. Chapter 2

**Another Chapter up. Hurray! Please review, my readers! It feeds inspiration!**

**Much love**

**-Awhoha**

The sun rose high in the morning sky painting the clouds red and blue. Birds sang sweet melodies as they perched happily on their branches in the various trees. Below, upon the earth the men had already begun. Swords smashed against spears; shields deflected scimitars; and men battled with bare fists. Dust rose as they danced, their feet one with the sand. Grunts, roars, and curses greeted the new dawn as the men of the house of Modius Holmes began their training. John could hear the men below while he stood—almost imagine their slitted eyes, their mouths grinning in feral smiles as they fought for victory. His golden orbs however, were focused ahead—a tall man with calculating brown eyes studying him as the dark haired boy with grey-green sniffed on the couch next to the right.

"He is unique." The dry clipped voice finally spoke, as his gaze lazily drifted over the man's toned figure. "But I must say, dear brother, I am surprised you managed to purchase such a specimen as he."

Sherlock glared at his brother, a grape disappearing passed his lips.

"I vaguely remember that you once claimed that you would never purchase a human being as it was too bothersome, and now I see you managed to find a man who you want to place in the Games." Mycroft accepted the drink offered to him by his personal slave, Anthea. His hand rested upon her hip as he drank the rich red wine, eyes turning to rest on her exposed breasts. Sherlock rolled his eyes as the slave blushed, the colour growing as Mycroft's hands traced her spine.

"You will have to pay for his keep, seeing as you have so generously dipped your hand in my purse to pay for his price." Mycroft rose, his red cloth ghosting the stone floor. "I must take leave, as I have another meeting with the Senate. Oh and Sherlock? Please try and behave yourself."

Sherlock stretched out his long limbs. The blue silk rested on one shoulder, the length exposing his legs up to the mid thigh. A single thin gold bracelet encircled a wrist, the insignia of the House stamped on the circular base. Sherlock took the green fruit in his lips, biting down half—the juice dripping down his chin. John watched, struggling to maintain his gaze just past the dark haired man's shoulders. But as the juice slowly trickled down, his gold gaze was riveted on the wet line. Sherlock slowly licked his lip, tasting the sweet nectar.

"Come here."

Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards as John cocked his head, but stepped forwards. The warrior, soon standing next the ornate couch, looked down at the youth, gaze curious. Sherlock lifted the half bitten fruit to John's lips.

"Eat."

John's mouth opened slowly, tongue snaking forwards. His eyes widened in pleasure as he bit into the flesh of the fruit. Sherlock wondered if his slave had ever tasted such delights. He pulled another grape from the stalk, his fingers brushing against the warriors lips. He felt a heat flow through him, his breath becoming shallow. John took the grape, his tongue brushing against the youth's fingers. Sherlock smiled—a lazy smile that showed perfect white teeth. John felt himself grow warm at the intense stare. He quickly stared at the ground, as something stirred inside. Sherlock chuckled quietly to himself. For once in his life Sherlock agreed to what Mycroft has said. His slave was indeed unique. Sherlock clapped summoning up one of Mycroft's servants.

"Take John to his quarters."

Sherlock watched as his slave was lead away, the blonde turning his head to gaze once more into the youth's eyes, unsure of what was happening. Sherlock ran a finger over his lips. The man was his, his to be made into a champion. A thrill ran up the youth's spine. The Game was on.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John was led by another slave down stone steps that made up the underground of the House. He had been reluctant to leave the youth's side, but the dark haired boy had waved him away. He walked past the torches that lighted the passage way, his feet warm with the sand. As the two men turned the corner, the gladiators—on break from the mornings training, turned their stares to the new comer. John watched warily; they were tall, built for battle. A slim yet strong man with muscles like a bull and eyes like the sea shifted, his long wavy hair pulled back in a pony tail.

"Whose the cocksucker?" He grinned, eyes hard like glass. "Is this one to be my bitch? I'll fuck him from dawn till dusk till he can hardly walk!" A laugh resounded among the men. John didn't know what had been said, but he guessed it was far from welcoming. As the blonde continued to follow the escort through the maze of passages—the man had barked at the gladiators who finally allowed them to pass, John was led to a room. A simple bed made out of planks of wood that were chained to the stone wall. He was to stay here John thought as he took in the straw in the corner, the metal basin for water. John turned to thank the man, but found the escort gone. He stood in the doorway, wondering what he was to do. A noise from behind caused John's spine to tingle. The man from before blocked his exit, eyes narrowed.

"So you're to be the Dominus' new Gladiator. Someone as small as you? By Jupiter's cock that's a laugh. All you'll be good for is to have my cock shoved up in your ass."

John held his ground, golden eyes narrowing at the man's tone. The man grinned, azure eyes clouded as he took a step closer. John moved aside, making it clear he wanted to leave. Other Gladiators from down the sands, observed betting on how the scene would unfold.

"You're not going anywhere," The man licked his lips taking a step closer. John twisted, aiming a blow to the man's chest. Surprise flashed across the other man's face, eyes losing their luster. The Gladiator moved quickly, blocking the blonde's attack—but just barely. John stepped back, hands relaxing back at his sides.

"What's going on?" A deep harsh voice ordered. The man with the mass of waves spat at the ground near John's feet. John didn't blink—his face calm and collected.

"Sulvius! Back outside! All of you! No one takes another break until I see that you are all spitting blood." A giant of a man with thick scars crossing his cheeks, appeared, a long whip wrapped around his meaty fist. John watched as the Gladiators obeyed, respect written on faces. The blue eyed man—Sulvius, hissed in John's direction.

"We're not through yet, cunt."

The giant waited until the men had once again disappeared into the sunlight. He turned to John who instantly stilled, ready for another attack.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" The man snarled. " I said move your ass out into the Pit or would you like me to do it for you?"

John caught the words move and out. He strode past the man, the crack of a whip echoing behind him. He was welcomed by the warmth of the sun, the blue of the sky and the wisps of white clouds. He stood watching as the men paired, weapons twirling artfully. John felt a sword pushed into his hand—a young boy no more than sixteen grinned shyly. John held the wooden blade, eyes scanning the crowd. The giant shouted and the blue eyed man named Sulvius strode forwards.

"You are to pair up with the runt—see where his skills lie. Remember: both the blood and the sands are sacred! I don't want any men who haven't yet left their mothers breasts here in my Pit. BEGIN!"

John watched carefully, mind whirling as the taller more heavily built warrior brandished his spear. Men were sparring: blood flowing from their mouths as they were ht with fist, sword, or shield. The blonde had minutes as the Gladiator lunged. John, an expert with a blade swung knocking the spear down into the sand. Survius hissed faking a blow, aiming for the shorter man's legs but John saw, leaping in the air. He landed but the Gladiator spun, bringing the end of the wooden weapon down into John's side. The blonde winced as the air was momentarily knocked from him. He fell to his knees, the earth hot against his bare flesh.

"Is your cunt yet dripping like a whore that you are? Your hand would be in better service stroking my aching cock! Your cheeks should be spread, your lips drinking me dry!"

John felt the end of the spear touch his inner thigh, just below his loincloth, inches from his groin. He quickly spun low, sand rising around him. He lunged eyes burning like molten gold. They danced, kicking up the sacred ground, as sweat beaded on their brow. John sunk down, thrusting upwards. He smiled as the blow flew forwards. Just as it appeared that the attack would land, Sulvius jumped, flying over John's back and colliding the wood against the blonde's cheek. John tasted the salt. He landed on his back, spitting blood over his chest. Stunned, John struggled to rise. A foot on his chest prevented the warrior from regaining his footing. The end of the spear presented itself at John's exposed throat, forcibly tilting his chin back.

"You think you can beat me?" Sulvius mocked, pride lacing his words. " I am the Champion—I have yet to be defeated." He grinned, lightly tapping John's jaw. The blonde grunted as the foot pressed down on his chest.

"Run back to your mother to suck on her tits. You have yet to be weened." With a laugh Sulvius strode off, his friends giving him a slap on the back. John sat up, spitting blood unto the sand.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John lay on the wood, his hands a make shift pillow. His torso rose and fell, his eyes counting each grain in the stone. His jaw ached and he had a split lip. John hummed quietly to himself, his mind drifting off. He thought back to the dark haired boy—Sherlock. He had heard the man, perhaps a brother—they shared similar traits, repeat that word while addressing the youth. The green-grey eyed man was named Sherlock. John paused in his humming, the name slipping, dancing on his tongue. He smiled as the firelight from the torch flickered around the wall.

John rose, unable to sit still any longer. He missed the youth, the way he looked at him—as if he could see right into his very soul. As John milled over his thoughts, he wandered the passages, eyes briefly hovering over the sleeping men on the floors or on their plank resting places. Each room was separated by iron fencing, almost like a cage but with an open door. John paused by the stairs that lead back up into the House. The door was locked—a guard stationed by the entrance so that none may pass without approval from the Dominus. John sighed, leaning against the cold metal. It had been an entire morning, yet Sherlock had not yet called upon him. His fingers traced thin scar encircling his neck. His collar had been removed once the brand of the House of Modius Holmes had been branded into his forearm. John shivered as he remember as Sherlock slender fingers ghosted over his flesh as he cut through the bond, trailing over his broad shoulders. The burn of the brand as Sherlock's eyes watched from his couch—another slave burning the youths mark into his flesh. The guard shouted something, John realizing that he wasn't allowed to loiter. He continued back to his section, fingers running though his hair. He turned a corner, almost bumping into the boy from earlier. John smiles apologetically as the boy blushed.

"Sorry," John managed, his voice sounding gritty—he hadn't spoken since his capture. The boy looked up a him, eyes wide.

"Sorry," John tried again, this time in the boys language. The words sounded odd to him, but the boy grinned at John's attempt. The boy gazed at John before holding up a clay cup.

"Drink. Its from the spring."

John accepted the water. It eased his parched throat; refreshing him. The boy smiled once more, before disappearing to refill his supply. John grinned as he watched the boy disappear. The warrior hummed as he made his way back, his body craving rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**A shorter chapter; my back has been hurting sitting in my chair for the last couple hours. I think it might be time for an upgrade. Read on and enjoy! Forgive any grammatical and historical mistakes. Please review (helps with my creative thoughts) ;-)**

**-Awhoha**

Sherlock sat in the hot water—the stone bath housing a ledge to which the youth sat, arms spread over the baths edge. Oils infused with the swirling steam created the scents of lavender. Sherlock sighed, droplets falling from his hand. He examined his fingers as the sunlight danced across his pale skin—long and slender that held so much power. He lowered his palm down, skimming the water. The splash sprayed across the bath jumping onto the stone floor. Sherlock rested his head back, tracing over his chest mindlessly as he ran numbers and numerals—his brain a massive warehouse. The youth pouted a feeling of boredom digging painfully in his side. He had studied so many times over that he now craved something more than just numbers and graphs. The thought of his slave grew in his mind; those beautiful golden eyes that seemed to shine with a calm fury yet holding a kindness that warmed Sherlock's heart. The darker haired man, his black curls clinging to his brow, growled. He rose from the water—naked body glimmering like diamonds. Still dripping, he clad his frame with a long white silk robe around his waist, draping the end around one arm. He strode over to the balcony, sliding down into one of the chairs—a servant following behind with a platter of bread and cheese, another with a fan weaved with peacock feathers. Sherlock eyes targeted his slave who was sparring in the Pit, blood mixed with sand decorating his back, chest and thighs. The golden haired man moved with speed, his blows well calculated—his attacks resembling a lion but as cunning as a snake. His man stood against a tall bronze Gladiator with short cropped black hair who was bleeding from a nasty cut to his jaw. Sherlock nibbled on fresh cheese cubes, the salt indulging his taste buds as he watched them glide across the sands. He grinned as John spun furiously, knocking the weapon from the man's hand. His slave was breathing hard, the veins in his arms pumping blood high on adrenaline. As if feeling the intense gaze, John turned his head, the face of Sherlock high above him. Sherlock rose, his hands coming to rest on the balconies pillared fence. John's breath hitched, refusing to settle. Sherlock stood like a white God; white silk garments embracing a tall, thin body yet well toned with muscles. His skin shone like marble, his eyes like a mysterious lake. His locks still clung with water—the beads of liquid refusing to succumb to gravity.

A shout broke John's trance as the Giant, realizing that one of the Dominus was present, forced his Gladiators into a line. Turning he gave a short bow to Sherlock, addressing the youth with proper formality. John's eyes never left Sherlock's face, a small grin forming. The boy may be young but he commanded respect. The Giant swept his great arms over his Gladiators his voice shaking the very earth. Sherlock nodded, eyes settling on John. John's heart beat faster as the Giant—also honored by the title Doctore, nodded at him, motioning him to step forwards. Sherlock called out again, this time a man with a scar covering one eye took the front of the line. John's mind whirled as the remaining Gladiators stepped back, giving the two men space. The warriors mind turned as he took another look at Sherlock. The boy watched face as smooth as glass. He was expected to present his skills to his Dominus and this was a test to prove that he was worthy. John faced his opponent. This man spat, eyes carefully guarded. Instantly John knew that this man was a seasoned Gladiator. In the Pit he head quickly learned that there where various ranks; some men had see the arena while others had not yet joined the brotherhood. John was one of those men and he now stood against one who had seen the sands of the Citadels. John gripped his weapon tightly in his grasp, determination raging in his eyes. He waited for the signal, the familiar order that sent excitement racing to his very bones.

"Begin!"

The two men lunged; two raging bulls charging with massive force, minds bent on victory. The larger man swung the sword upwards, it's wooden blade rushing towards John's jaw. The blonde threw himself back, his feet digging into the earth for balance. John swung at the waist, bending low and aiming his sword at the man's legs. The dark skinned warrior laughed dancing out of harms reach as John's wooden blade wailed, cutting into thin air. John grinned. He leaped aiming a kick, his foot ramming into the firm chest of the other warrior. The man stumbled back, blocking the sudden attack to his right. The Gladiator leaned back as John struck like a coiled serpent. The man rotated with surprising speed suddenly in John's space. The man thrust, the swords tips nicking his chest. John could feel the welt rising, but he paid it no heed. He fought back, adrenaline flowing as they crossed swords. Faces inches from each other, they pushed until their muscles shook with the effort. They sprang back, both breathing heavily. Once again rushing forwards like angry dogs, the men forgot all else except the smell of sweat, the heat of the sun and the symphony of wood embracing wood. John seeing an opening dove, kicking the man from underneath his own feet. The dark skinned Gladiator grunted as he slipped, John aiming a solid kick against his back. The man flew into the sands, air escaping his lungs. John strode forth, knocking the blade from the others reach. He pressed the sword against the back of the tall warriors neck, his breast frantic. The Doctore finished the match with a roar. John dropped his weapon, extending his hand. The taller man hesitated, eyes narrowed. Abruptly he grinned, his hand clasping Jon's welcoming arm. The blonde helped the man rise to his feet giving him a lopsided smile in return. They both turned—covered with blood, sweat and earth, and lowered their heads in a bow. Sherlock gave a brief nod before retiring back into the home.

"You fought well," the dark skinned man greeted as the men milled around in the Pit. John tilted his head, words forming on his dry tongue.

"I don't understand." John felt the words crack. His voice was unused, raw. The other man raised a dark brow, but his eyes weren't unkind.

"You're from across the sea," The man smiled, slapping John's back. The man made sure John was staring at him, his mouth uttering the words 'My name is Gallus' as he pointed at himself.

"Gallus." John tried, tilting his head slightly. The man broke out into a throaty laugh.

"John." The blonde supplied as they made way under the canopy made of thin cloth. They reached for the flasks of water, sating their demanding throats with the sweet taste.

"I shall teach you the words of our empire, John from over the Sea." Gallus grinned, sitting down on the bench, groaning as he stretched his weary limbs. "Sit and enjoy what little rest we can attain."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock encircled his slave as John stood before him clad only in his loincloth that was bound by a tight belt of leather. John had been bathed and oiled, having being summoned shortly after the viewing. Red welts from the mornings battle decorated his upper chest, the youth's fingers tracing over the lines.

"Quite stunning," Sherlock breathed, the scent of his man filling his sense of smell. He felt John shudder as his continuous study of his slaves body moved lower, tracing the man's abdominis. Sherlock could feel the blood deceitfully enlarging his cock. John gazed up at the tall youth questioning as Sherlock waved away the servants filling his chamber. Sherlock's fingers worked at the belt ever so slowly, waiting for an expression to rise from the blondes face. John trembled as the boy let the belt fall the the floor, hands unwrapping the cotton cloth. The green grey eyes widened as John stood exposed- John was well endowed for a man of his stature.

"Name." Sherlock commanded breaking the high silence.

"John, Dominus." John whispered catching the word that had been spoken by Gallus and using the name that the others uttered when Sherlock or his brother appeared before them. Sherlock's eyes seemed to smile, before quickly clouding over with something much darker.

"Aren't you a fast learner. Good, good. I do hate the dull ones, they bore me." Sherlock licked his lips, tracing his index finger over John's tip. The man was breathing with some difficulty, the boy infiltrating his thoughts. John's shaft swelled as Sherlock continued to pay it mind, those eyes ever so prideful. Suddenly Sherlock's tough left him, John refusing to let out a moan of protest. Instead he watched as Sherlock shouted, a servant bringing on a silver tray, a vial of clear gold oil. Sherlock snapped ushering the woman out of the room. John stood uncertain, his eyes fluttering back and forth. Sherlock felt heat creep up to his neck. The man, John, was beautiful. His eyes were filled with trust, and something of fascination. Sherlock glided behind the shorter man, marveling at his buttocks. With a hand, Sherlock pushed his slave over to his bed. John took a step forwards, his knees bumping the wooden frame. Sherlock examined John's spine, fingers pushing the warrior until his hands were nestled in the silk bedsheets, back bent.

"By all the Gods," Sherlock breathed forgetting all the numbers plaguing his brain. "My cock aches to be inside you. I shall not only teach you words; I shall fuck you until you know longer know anything but my name upon those lips."

John shivered as Sherlock caressed the intergluteal cleft before once again leaving the blonde aching for the youth's warmth. Sherlock let the oil run down his fingers, his foot nudging John's legs apart. A finger slid into John, trespassing past the tight ring of muscles. It burned—John arched his head back, fingers gripping in the sheets. It was like nothing he had ever felt before—an ache so painful yet his body shook with the need. Sherlock retracted his digit before pressing it further. John bit his lips tasting blood. Sherlock, lips slightly separated, inserted a second finger. The heat was overwhelming. Sherlock couldn't wait another moment longer. He withdrew his fingers, John's entrance coated with oil—renegade liquid running down the inside of his thighs. Sherlock hissed as he coated his sex, then with a desire he had never felt, parted the warrior. John's entrance—pink and puckered, swallowed up the dark haired youth's cock as he drove his hips forward. John let out a throaty groan. Pain erupted in the coils of his belly, spreading to his back. His legs shook as Sherlock's shaft penetrated his virgin anus, his body rocking forwards as Sherlock lost control. The youth dug a hand in John's shoulder, the other gripping his waist. He pounded hard and fast—his balls creating a rhythm against the slaves backside. John moaned loudly as Sherlock embedded himself deep locating the prostrate. John's pain vanished; a euphoric eruption of pleasure enveloping the blonde in its seductive embrace. The blonde tried to hold on waiting for his Dominus to release his seed prior to his own gratification. Sherlock melted as John squeezed tightly around him, the sensation driving him to madness. With a half curse, half gruntle moan, Sherlock emptied himself in the man underneath. John, feeling the hot semen fill his insides, let his climax take him. They both stood, quivering as they experienced climactic shocks. Sherlock pulled out of his slave, blood and semen leaking out of the pluckered hole. Sherlock placed a tender kiss along John's spine the ghost of a grin adorning his lips. John, not trusting his legs, slowly sank to the floor. Sherlock, still standing behind, reached for John's head. With slender hands, he tilted John's head back claiming a kiss. John, started, opened his mouth to which the youth took advantage of—tongue ravishing the unexplored territory. The broke apart, Sherlock cradling John to his stomach.

"Mine." Sherlock whispered, stroking the golden locks. "Mine."


	4. Chapter 4

**Another chapter up! Sorry for the wait. I have been lazy. **

**I watched the new Sherlock Holmes movie and OMGosh was it the best movie I have seen all year! Loved it. Omgosh. Love it love it love it. Kay enough of me babbling like an idiot. Read on dear readers!**

**Sorry for any mistakes made in grammar/spelling/historical content.**

**Please review and a million thanks to all those who added this story to their subsciption/story alerts!**

**-Awhoha**

Rich red wine splashed in the arms of the slaves—the drink contained in the shining golden bowl that passed between the vast array of masked faces. Music froliced freely throughout the room mingling with the thrusting of hips, the slap of flesh against flesh. Moans amalgamated with the quotidian voices, the hall alive with many a body. Sherlock watched from around the pillar, a goblet of his finest wine twisting around his slender fingers. His eyes sought out his brother—Mycroft currently observing a gambling match as his glass never emptied. His slave, Anthea, pressed her bare chest against the man's back, hands running down his forearms. Bored, Sherlock maneuvered his vision around the hall. Women were lounging along the couches, arms wrapped around the silken pillows as the men shouted in good humour. Others were too engrossed in their lust—pressed up against the walls, floor and the fine furniture. A young slave moaned as one of Mycroft's associates on the Senate thrust against delicate hips near where the youth observed. Sherlock sniffed, the scent of musk hanging heavily on his flesh. He sauntered through the masses, ignoring the calls of invitation or the needy hands reaching out to grasp at his form. He avoided some of Mycroft's guests- Lestrade the Captain of the City Guard was a pain he could not quite shake off. The man would consult Sherlock whenever he ran into trouble, and that was almost always. Sherlock tried to find a quiet spot by the window, view over looking the vast gardens.

It had been a month. A month since his golden haired slave from the Seas had been purchased by the House of Modius. Sherlock licked his lips as the pressure in his lions increased. His slave had progressed quickly: he had grasped the language, managing clipped sentences. Not to mention his willingness to please.

_John Watson._

Sherlock rolled the name on his tongue. John. He had asked his man his name after having the older man in the bath—the golden eyes hazed over, lips thick from the assault of the younger man's kisses. John had told him of his country; the high mountains blanketed with green grass that fed the sheep. Large stone homes filled with laughter and simple festivities. Snow. Sherlock had been amused when John described the word snow: white cold that fell to the land in vast amounts. Sherlock had scoffed at the very notion, but John had squared his jaw telling Sherlock he was being simple minded. Sherlock raised a brow, John reddening at the sudden words that had left his lips. If John had been any other, Sherlock would have had his tongue cut out.

"You don't seem to be enjoying the evening's festivities," a voice cut in, releasing Sherlock from his immersion of thought. Mycroft stood before him, eyes drifting lazily through the mass amounts of bodies and wine.

"I find you're events rather lacking, dear brother."

"Oh and you could do much more, I'm sure." Mycroft's voice was dry as he turned his gaze down on the shorter man. "But no matter. I am sure you've heard the latest rumours."

Sherlock allowed his lips to curl up in an unpleasant smile.

"Why should it concern me?"

Mycroft raised a brow, the wine sliding down his throat. His dark eyes shone dangerously through the torch light.

"Considering you both had history -"

"I would rather not have this discussion, Mycroft." Sherlock hissed as a drunken man stumbled beside them, teeth grinning behind his mask.

"You know how I am concerned for your well being, dear brother-"

"I do not care for your concern!"

"That is what I am afraid of." Mycroft frowned examining his wine. Sherlock's gray tinted eyes narrowed- he reached for a goblet from a passing tray,the wine vanishing behind his scowl. Mycroft's expression was guarded as he gave a mocking bow before leaving his younger brother to attend to his drifting thoughts.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson sat at the wooden table —the evening meal consisting of cooked barley, legumes and fresh bread. A brew of wood ash rich in calcium sat next to the simple wood plate, the smell causing John's nose to crinkle in distaste. His golden eyes gazed through the simple window, the stars shining down upon the city.

"You going to eat or are you going to allow me to indulge on extras?" A voice chuckled as a heavy hand playfully slapped John across the back. The smaller man smiled, making way for Gallus. Skin the colour of deep bronze shone in the simple light of the torches that hung from the walls as the Gladiator settled down next the the warrior.

"You already have more then the rest," John bit back a laugh at the massive portion heaped on his friends plate. He still struggled with the proper pronunciation of words, but he was getting better. From the lessons Gallus kindly offered and the lesson's Sherlock dictated—John tried not to let his heart race to fast—he was learning at a pace that surprised them both.

"I'm famished!" Gallus argued between mouthfuls, earning a laugh from John. An eerie jolt suddenly ran up across his spine—the sensation of being watched, as John's gold eyes turned to find icy blue. Sulvius. The tall man watched John from his group of men, gaze narrowed.

"He's worse then all the lot put together," Gallus spoke quietly, John's eyes retrained on his meal. "He's an outright fucking bastard. It's a shame that he's the champion of the House."

A roar of laughter erupted from the Gladiator's table. John looked up seeing the young boy—Amicus, the youth who helped around, being dragged into the lap of the blue eyed Gladiator. The boy's eyes were wide with fright as he tried to escape. A sneer, another bout of laughter from the men made the youth still, gaze trained on the ground while Sulvius brought his hand across the boys groin. John felt rage erupt. He slowly rose to his feet, voice demanding.

"Let him go."

Laughter was replaced with silence, every pair of eyes focused on the blonde. Sulvius grinned, tongue rolling over his pink lips.

"Let the boy go." John repeated, voice a low growl. Sulvius' men rose in warning. To John's immense relief the blue eyed Gladiator released the boy, the youth fleeing from the room. Sulvius rose, closing the distance between the warrior with astonishing speed. John didn't flinch as the man's breath felt hot against his neck.

"You have something to offer then?" The Champion spoke loudly, voice rumbling through his massive chest. "Maybe offer your arse, bent over like a woman begging to be had?" Throaty cries grew around John as he tilted his head, eyes now golden slits.

"I think you should stop talking." John flexed his fingers, the nails digging into his palm. The Champion sneered, looming further still.

"Or what cockfucker?"

John brought up a fist, knuckles colliding with bone. The man swore loudly,blood running from his nose. With eyes as cold as ice Sulvius whipped the blood across the back of his hand a vicious grin spreading across his face. He raised a hand for his men to stand down. This fight was his.

Both men circled, fists raised. The blue eyed man swept in a well aimed punch catching John in the stomach, who then in turn retaliated with a throw to the groin. They charged again, fists striking against flesh. Their bodies mingled with sweat and blood as the men surrounding them cheered, placing bets on their favored party. The adrenaline coursed through John's veins. He knew he had a disadvantage of being as short as he was, but he was as fast as Sulvius. John launched himself at the Gladiator feigning a punch. Sulvius let out a bark of laughter, his body spinning. John swung low, kicking the man from under his feet. As Sulvius fell he grasped for John, his grip ensnaring the blonde's ankle. John staggered as the dark haired man dragged him down, their bodies colliding painfully with the earth beneath. John, the breath knocked out of his lungs, wheezed as the dust from the ground rose, surrounding them both. Sulvius, grip still entrapping John's ankle, pulled the blonde forcefully backwards. John grunted as a force pressed down on his entire body. Sulvius , arm now pressing painfully into his neck, had the smaller warrior pinned. John tried to squirm but the weight was immovable. The Champion pressed John's head further back exposing his throat.

"Who do you think you are? You would serve better on your hands and knees, legs spread!"

"ENOUGH!" A great booming voice thundered. Momentarily distracted, Sulvius drew his attention away—John immediately removing the man from a top his chest. Sulvius roared as John coughed, struggling to his feet.

" I SAID ENOUGH!" The Giant roared, whip cracking threateningly. John swayed, lip cut as Gallus held him steady. Sulvius shot daggers in John's direction, spitting blood unto the earth.

"Back to your cells!" The Doctore bellowed as the whip hissed like an angry serpent. "Half rations for a week! Don't test my generosity or I'll have you chained in solitude!"

John allowed Gallus to lead him away, the rest of the men quickly deserting the room. John sank down unto the wooden stool in the bath area. Men stood around nude, others bathing themselves from the water that swelled from the hot mineral spring contained by the large stone bath. Gallus gently wiping a damp cloth across his back. John shivered at the contact, his muscles rippling under his skin.

"Sulvius had no right to treat the boy so," John croaked, mouth dry. Gallus reached for water, John gulping it down hurriedly. "I could not stand by."

"You did the right thing, John from over the Sea."

"Just John is fine," the blonde chuckled. He reached for the basin of water, splashing water across his dirt streaked face. He stripped himself of his loincloth and leather, washing his body with the welcoming warmth. He ran his fingers over his sand streaked chest, the thin scars raised under his touch. A vision of Sherlock's touch as it ghosted over his flesh caused John to tremble. He quickly hid the memory, lowering his body into the waters. He leaned back, eyes watching as Gallus removed his own clothes, joining John in the bath.

"The Games are fast approaching," Gallus breathed, his eyes closed as his body soaked in the minerals. "It will be great; once again drawing blood on the sacred Sands. The roar of the crowds, the lust for blood. A battle for your very survival."

John rested his arms over the edges of the bath, letting out a deep breath.

"One should fight for those he wishes to protect and for those he loves, not for blood nor sport."

"Then you are in the wrong place, my friend."

John nodded, his heart heavy. He was conflicted: he did not wish to fight, to kill men for sport. The only thing that mattered to him was the youth. Sherlock Modius Holmes. His Dominus. If his Dominus wished him to fight, so it shall be.

The warrior bayed Gallus a goodnight before making way to his cell. John hummed an old tune under his breath- he thought of the mountains, the sweet smell of the meadows, could hear the sheep bleating as they trampled across the green. His golden eyes remembered the people he left behind the people he had lost. He remembered the flames, the screams and the clash of steel. John ceased his melody, his thoughts drifting to darker times. He sighed, dragging his weary body to his bed. He placed his hands under his head, his golden gaze staring up at the ceiling made of stone.

A movement by the entrance caused John to tense. The boy, Amicus stood by a shy smile upon his lips, allowing John to relax.

"Dominus Holmes requests your presence."

John couldn't help but lick his lips in anticipation as Amicus led him through the did not see the pair of eyes watching him from the darkness.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"By all the Gods. YES! JOHN!_ YES_!"

John moaned loudly tensing his muscles around Sherlocks abusing cock. The youth pushed into the blonde his hands wrapped around the man's waist, never stilling his hips. John- his shoulders shaking, his legs trembling, knelt on the bed. His cries of pleasure spurred the grey green eyed man into a frenzy. He increased his tempo, his cock and balls slapping against his man's buttocks. John could hardly see. His mind was filled with a white haze—all he could comprehend was Sherlocks name.

"Sher-" John stammered. "Sherlock."

"Fuck. John, FUCKING HELL!" Sherlock thrust deep, his seed spilling deep inside. John bucked into the thrust as his mind exploded. He couldn't breath. They lay, a mass of tangled limbs. Sherlock, still inside his warrior, turned the man over. Sherlock looked down at John, his tangle of golden hair, his brilliant eyes, his flushed cheeks. Empyrean. That was what described John at that exact moment. Sherlock reached under, cupping John's neck, angling his head for a kiss. John, eyes closed, allowed Sherlock to claim him once again. The youth ravished the blonde's mouth, earning lewd moans as a reward. They broke away for air, chests rising rapidly. John tenderly brushed the hair from Sherlocks brow, his eyes drinking in the sight of the youth. John threw back his head as Sherlock plunged, his prick once again filled with blood. John's legs found themselves thrown over the pale shoulders of the youngest Holmes, his eyes alive with a fire ready to consume everything in its path. Sherlock blindly reached for John's hands, placing them over his chest. John's fingers ran across the muscled form, fingers brushing against sensitive nipples. Sherlock lifted John's hips higher, allowing him further access into his man. John, his spine aching from the position removed his hands from his Dominus' chest to his side, evenly distributing the weight. Sherlock hissed at the lose of contact but he wanted John to be comfortable. He captured his man's lips again, biting down. John's eyes narrowed, his own tongue battling. Sherlock chuckled, and snapped his cock forwards with such force, John gave out a cry. The blonde gasped, his hole clenching down hard over the youth's member. Sherlock shuddered, the heat so tight, so wet.

As they lay exhausted, Sherlock played with the man's left nipple—fingers gently teasing. John stroked the mass of ebony curls, the touch as soft as silk.

"Have you ever had a man before?" Sherlock demanded suddenly. He propped his head with one hand, gaze fixated on John's lips. The man blinked, trying to focus on the outburst.

"No. I have never done such acts with anyone." John whispered, a deep blush blossoming over his body. Sherlock beamed. He laughed, a deep sound that John found soothing. The blonde couldn't help it. He giggled. Sherlock raised a brow. John laughing—no giggling in his bed. Sherlock straddled John's waist, his hands tracing the muscled serratus anterior. John giggled louder. Sherlock grinned evilly. He soon had the warrior pleading for him to stop. Suddenly John flipped Sherlock over unto his back so that their roles were reversed. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. John was panting above him, his eyes shining suns. Sherlock breathlessly traced his slaves face, every detail cataloging in his mind. John gently pressed his lips to Sherlock a kiss so gentle that Sherlock felt his heart beat as it had never beaten before.


	5. Chapter 5

**Just a heads up for this chapter: Rape- I just write whatever pops into my head as my fingers fly over the keyboard- please don't be cruel! Sherlock finds out what the rumours are...dududu. I constantly check my email looking for anything so please make my day and review! A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL THOSE WHO FAVED AND WATCHED THIS STORY! I love you all and thanks for the support. Makes writing ENJOY!**

**-Awhoha**

John Watson tried to catch his breath, lungs flaring in protest. His lower back refused to cooperate—his time with Sherlock had taken a toll on his chassis and his legs still throbbed painfully. The Gladiator he was sparing with showed no mercy, his advances persisting with violent onslaughts. John blocked, feeling the blow of the sword vibrate through the wood shield, the after sock sweeping into his arms. John gritted his teeth. He couldn't lose. He wouldn't allow himself that—despite everything the warrior was a proud man, and like any other warrior did not handle defeat well. John bit his lip, tasting blood. He lunged, spun, kicked and slashed. With agility that surprised even himself, John had soon knocked the other man down, the tip of his blade forcing the man's chin up high. John reached out as hand, the Gladiator nodding in thanks. The blonde handed his sparring tools to the outstretched arms of Amicus, who hurried over once the match had ended.

The sun's rays were a volley of heat creating the simmering glow that bounced off the yellow sand. John reached for the wooden cup, drawing warm water from the barrel. The warrior took a small sip, rinsing his mouth of the sand and blood. Water. Nothing tasted as pure as the swallow of life giving liquid. It passed down his throat—healing the dryness as it washed away the remaining traces of sand. He sat gingerly, taking care of the pain pulsing in his lower spine. He had been taken a number of times and each and every time the young man had thrust in abandon. John rested his head against the wall of the Pit, the thin piece of cotton cloth overhead giving some relief from the heat. He focused on calming his breathing, his chest mitigating the oxygen back into it's normal flow.

Gallus fought hard, earth kicking up at his heals. John watched the dance with vigor, trying to decipher each Gladiators technique and the way that they appeared amidst a challenge. As Gallus howled in victory, John's golden eyes drifted among the men, rubbing his neck free of the thin layer of crusting yellow sand.

Sulvius caught John's eye from across the Pit. The Champion sneered, blue eyes mocking. He kicked at the man rushing him, forcing him brutally to the ground. His black wavy hair was pulled back half way, the rest free falling around his muscular shoulders. He spat, dropping his weapons as the man on the ground clutched at broken ribs. Sulvius headed straight for John, cold eyes never leaving the golden haired man as he strode forth. Every muscle in John's body told him to leave—he didn't want a confrontation. Sulvius leaned against the container of water, hands reaching for drink. He spat out the grit, licking his lips in a feral display.

"I envisioned you would still be begging for more cock." The man smiled lewdly rubbing his groin suggestively.

John stood, an unsettling feeling cracking in his chest. Sulvius stepped, blocking his path.

"Did you enjoy the feeling of a man bucking inside you as you spread your legs?" The Champion closed the space between them, backing John up against the side wall. John snarled like a trapped dog. Sulvius grabbed his throat, long fingers pressing hard. John's hands instinctively flew to his neck as he tried to pry loose the man's hold.

"How did you beg?" Sulvius demanded in a hoarse whisper. John wheezed in reply, teeth bared. "A man like you should be taken by force, fucked until he bleeds, until he can't remember his own name. Is that how he took you?"

John kicked the man in the fibula/patella with such force that Sulvius had to release his hold to grip his knee, a tumultuous roar filling the Pit. John brought his elbow down into the soft spot near the clavicle as the Champion rushed him. John coughed, the air leaving his lungs as the man's weight crushed him against the wall. Sulvius, a punch impacting just above the umbilicus, brought John staggering to his knees. The blonde through a haze of red, used the wall to roll and spin, legs threatening to give way. He kicked at the Champion, the back of his heel smashing the popliteal fossa. Sulvius dropped to his knee, face a flame with rage, mouth open in pain. John didn't wait for the man to regain his footing- using the last strength he could muster, the blonde twirled bringing his fist against the others jaw. The Gladiator reached out to the wall for balance, stunned by the powerful blow.

The crack of the whip fell on deaf ears as John tried to stand, prepared for another onrush. He struggled against the strong hands that dragged him across the sands towards the cells. He had one last look at his assailant; the Champions men helping him up to his feet. The look in the man's gaze frightened John—not the apparent fire of fury, but the brazen lust that hid in those icy blues.

Darkness replaced the heat of the sun as John was thrown into a empty chamber. He was forced to face the wall, hands above his head. His wrists were shackled with irons that decorated the stone, his knees digging into sand and bits of straw as he kneeled. The pain in his torso rolled every time he took in a shallow gulp of air. John closed his eyes willing the pain to go away.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock bit into an apple, the audible crunch reaching his ears from the inside. He was bored. Bored and aroused. He contemplated summoning John, but the man had already been ridden hard the previous night. Sherlock smiled. John moaning as his hips trembled, trying to follow the dark haired man's rhythm. Crunch went the apple as pearly white teeth tore at it's green skin- fresh juice escaping down Sherlocks chin. A thumb brushed it away, leaving his chin with the scent of apple.

He needed a case, something to occupy his mind with calculations and observations. His last rendezvous with the City Guard had been finding a mere thief. That had been plebeian to say the least. But now, now there where the rumors.

"But why now?" Sherlock mumbled to himself. He shifted on the couch, ruffling through his curls as his mind worked. He sighed, curling up on his side, tugging his blue toga closer. He turned on his other side, frowning. He sat back up, face in his palms unable to ease his discomfort. His cock shouted at him, reminding him that he had another more pressing matter to attend. The youngest Holmes shouted, a slave appearing from the side. A woman. He sighed. He watched as she stood before him, her eyes downcast. She had small breasts, a thin frame with generous curves. He grunted, pushing aside his robe. She knelt on the floor, hands reaching for the engorged shaft. Sherlock hissed as she took him in her mouth, her tongue lapping at his tip. He closed his eyes, conjuring the image of John , gold eyes as bright as a million suns. He imagined that it was his man giving him pleasure, hollowing out his cheeks, taking him all in. John, as he angled his mouth, fingers resting on Sherlock's thighs. The sounds of soft whimpering as Sherlock worked his man with deft fingers, bringing John to the brink of bliss.

Sherlock shuddered, thrusting deep. He moaned in release, eyes slowly fluttering open. He watched with indifference as the slave whipped her mouth before returning to her post, Sherlock no longer in need of her assistance. Green grey eyes roamed restlessly towards the outdoors—it was about time he made his way to the market.

*o.O.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John tried moving his legs to a more comfortable position while glancing at the boy Amicus, who stood in the entrance, a cup of water nestled in his palms.

"I am to bring you water."

"Thank-you." John felt his voice crack slightly. It had been hours without anything to quench his thirst. With the help of the youth, John was able to sate his parched throat, the excess water dripping down his chin.

"Would you like me to fetch some more?" Amicus asked, eyes wide as John sniffed. The blonde nodded, to tired to hung his head down, eyes drifting shut. He recited the various names of healing herbs and their properties. No one in Rome knew, but John Watson wasn't only a warrior—he had studied the art of medicine and healing. A doctor it the specific term. John rubbed his shin against his shoulder, trying to relieve an irritating itch. He was sweaty, the salt causing his skin to rebel. He raised his head as the familiar sound of feet entered the room.

"I thought you had forgotten about me," John joked shifting sideways, bright eyes turning towards the doorway.

"Oh believe me, I didn't."

John felt his heart plummet in a bottomless ravine. Sulvius loomed overhead, two of his men watching the tunnels. The Champion moved to John's blind spot drinking in the sight of the man chained beneath him. The shorter warrior was dressed in his loincloth, the straps of leather keeping it in place. The cloth wrapped around his buttocks, but just. It was firm and round, tempting any man to claim it as his own. Thin leather strands wrapped around his legs almost up to mid thigh. The Champion ran his tongue over his teeth. His cock could break stone, it was so hard. Sulvius knelt, hands reaching to slide under the loincloth to grip at the warriors arse.

"Don't-" John jerked his arms against the irons, the flesh burning. He shifted trying to move as far away as he possibly could.

"_By the Gods_," Sulvius breathed as he worked at the bindings, exposing the blonde from his shred of clothing. John thundered, once again throwing himself, trying to break away from the restraints.

"You're skin is that of a woman's-" The Gladiator whispered, hated hands running up his spine, across his cheeks marveling at the many spiderweb scars. "Soft to the touch of a man."

"Get your fuckin' hands off of me!" John spat, pure hate dripping like venom. A dark chuckle filled the cell—the man ignoring the blonde completely. John shook like a leaf in the wind as the man drew flush against his back, the Champion's erection evident through his leather covering. John's head was yanked back, the man now rutting against his cleft. John swallowed the realization of how helpless he was—he would not give this man the satisfaction he so desperately craved.

"The fun hasn't even started yet," the voice drawled, heavy with intent. John felt a finger trace his spine, down through his cleft and push in through his hole. He bit down hard, the metallic taste filling his mouth. The finger was extracted, the Gladiators eyes narrowed as he rubbed his fingers together—they were slick with oil.

"You're going to spread your legs like a whore and take my cock in your slick hole," Sulvius was panting now, undoing his binding. His member sprang free, bobbing in the warm air. John couldn't help but lt out a strangled moan as the Champion, hands on hips, embedded himself deep into the warriors heat. The Gladiator pumped himself hard and fast, fingers tearing John's hips.

"Shit. You're so tight— fucking sucking me all the way in you slut!" Sulvius hitched biting John hard. The warrior let out another tortured sound. "Sing golden eyes. Sing your heart out."

John failed to breath. His abdomen felt like it was being split apart from the inside. Sherlock had been large, but this Gladiator was tearing him, the pain unlike any other. John couldn't help but give a primal whimper as Sulvius plunged deeper and deeper. A hand slid inside John's mouth tasting of salt and earth. The blonde gagged as the digits slid further down, Sulvius panting against John's neck. John felt his resolve slip, pained moans escaping his lips as the thrusting became frantic.

"Ugh!" Sulvius shouted as he came, spilling deep into the heat. John hung limp from the chains feeling sick. His stomach churned as he felt the man pull out, his lust quelled.

"You may be the Dominus' outside these walls, but in here your my whore."

John tried to swallow but gagged. He threw up, the bile landing in a sickly pile next to his side. He shivered as he rested his forehead, the cold stone offering little relief.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the streets bits of gossips floating through the crowded masses. He stopped at a simple stall, his eyes catching sight of a simple bone carved necklace on a leather thong. He passed over a coin, the necklace soon safe in his pouch. He would give it to John as a gift—the bone would look good against his tan skin. The youth hastened his pace, grey green eyes brimming with excitement.

Sherlock found the familiar six story stone and marble building—The City Guard. He skipped a few steps, nodding at a few of the Roman clad soldiers, their rich red plumage escaping from their helmets.

"Greeting Lestrade," Sherlock acknowledged, giving the man a brief nod. The Leader of the City Guard looked up from his vast table filled with parchments, maps, and carved figurines.

"Ah Modius Holmes. I trust you are in fine health?"

"Enough of mindless chatter. Any news?"

"News?"

"The rumors. Is there any truth to them. I know you were talking to Mycroft about it last night, before you got all caught up in that woman's thighs." Sherlock noted the scarlet blush rising from the Leaders neck.

"Well they are hardly rumors _now_, Sherlock. Do be courteous and say _hello_."

The youth flinched at the voice – the pitch was high with a touch of blasé. Grey clouded eyes turned to meet dark orbs as Sherlock found himself staring at the man with distaste.

"Oh come now, Sherlock. Is that how you greet an old _friend_?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Another Chapter up! Sorry for the wait/ spelling/ any history flaw. Enjoy! **

**-Awhoha**

Sherlock Modius Holmes turned rancorously, deep gray green eyes hooded, his brow narrowed ever so slightly. A set of stygian eyes blinked at him from a handsome face, black cropped hair combed neatly in place. The man wore a set of fine purple robes, a single gold ring set upon the middle finger of his right hand. The greeting may have seemed pristine, but Sherlock could detect the danger layered behind the man's smile.

"Jim Moriarty, what a pleasant surprise."

"Most certainly a pleasure to be back in Capua, Rome once more." Jim Moriarty motioned to the great hall of the City Guard. His voice was low breaking into a higher tone. Rather irritating, Sherlock thought, brushing imaginable lint off his robes as he replied in turn.

"How was your voyage overseas? Di d you find what you were searching for."

"More or less."

"Moriarty will be rejoining the gladiatorial Houses," Lestrade piped in. " He will be one of the patrons of the Games."

"Is he now?" Sherlock tried to hold back the bite to his words, though seeing the smirk brimming on Moriarty's face he knew he had failed.

"Your brother has so graciously extended an invitation to a feast, three days time. I do hope we can discuss further in greater detail, Holmes. I must regret, but I must take leave. May Jupiter shine his good graces."

Sherlock grimaced, the man deliberately leaving out his honorific title as he swept through the hall, leaving Sherlock to brood in silence.

"Are you alright, Modius Holmes?" The Leader asked, the red feathered helmet tucked under his arm.

"Never better," Sherlock huffed, his attention focused on the older military man. " Any avocation?"

"Avocation?"

"Anything happen recently?"

"No- nothing we cannot handle."

"Nothing at all?" Sherlock couldn't help but let the bitterness contaminate the air. Lestrade seemed to flinch at the tone, but tardily shook his head.

Sherlock left the Guard's superstructure in a calm rage. Nothing. Nothing! Absolutely nothing but a fight over prize chickens! Sherlock felt the necklace he had purchased for the slave, cold against his fingers. He sighed, running his index finger over the smooth carved bone. He wanted to see John.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson felt a hardness press into his back, the smell of scented water wafting through his nostrils. He was vaguely aware of a hot cloth gently wiping away the bile and sweat. The blonde tried to speak but no words came out—they tasted like cotton: thick and heavy. His limbs felt like they were forged from iron, his mind a dull throb. He cracked open his eyes, focusing on the young boy kneeling beside his bed. It was Amicus. John tried to sit up but his mind screamed at him, the boy slowly pushing him down.

"You're running a high fever, your body has suffered a cracked rib and-" Amicus broke off, eyes darting to John's bare thighs. "I'm washing you up."

John shivered. He felt cold. He closed his golden eyes the shine slowly growing weaker. He shivered as the cloth was taken away, replaced with a sweet scented oil. Rosemary infused with basil. To help with the pain, John thought, recalling his medicinal knowledge.

"I'm preparing a tea made of white willow to help with the fever and pain." Amicus whispered, fingers working into the muscles with as much care as he dared. John gave a grunt of approval, his chest protesting at the gesture. The fingers withdrew, the boy rushing to get the brew. John licked his dry lips, tasting bile. He felt sick, he wanted to throw up. Taking shallow but even breathes, the warrior managed to keep the sickness down, his stomach clenching. A knee jerked without his knowledge, his back exploding into shards of pain. John gritted his teeth to imprison the silent scream. His mind now being made aware of the ache between his buttocks, froze remembering what had occurred prior. His calm breathing accelerated, his fingernails scrapping against his palms. John forced himself still, his heart shrouded in ice. He would not let Sherlock find out. He heard the boy return, allowing the bitter taste of the herbs to slide down his sandy throat. John finished, before allowing the darkness take hold, eyes fluttering closed.

It wasn't until sometime in the next few hours that John heard the roaring- the voice that transpired throughout the entire underground. He opened his eyes, his muscles sore but compliant, as he craned his neck to the side desperate to locate the source of commotion. His entire body froze.

"_YOU FUCKING PIECES OF HORSE SHIT_!" thundered a man with wild black hair that blossomed into tight curls, gray green eyes ablaze, fingers digging into the Doctore's throat, the normally steely man cowling under the Dominus outrage.

"Sher- Dominus," John croaked, catching the abrupt attention of the youth. No one noticed the slight slip of tongue as John called out to Sherlock. The man was instantly at his side, hands reaching down to touch the warriors temple.

"Your still feverish. I will have you moved up to more suitable arrangements," Sherlock gently brushed a slick strand of hair away from John's face, then whirling back to the gaggle of Gladiators standing outside of John's room, the youth all but lunged at their throats. "_YOU! YES YOU ARE TO MOVE HIM UP TO MY CHAMBERS AT ONCE! THERE WILL BE FUCKING HELL TO PAY YOU MISERABLE COCKFUCKING_-"

"Dominus," John interrupted, the other Gladiators looking at him with wide eyes—he dared break the Dominus speech? "Your yelling is causing my head to split."

"Mark my words—By Jupiter, once I have found the perpetrator I will have his cock served on a platter to the lions, have him strung up the wall, have his head thrown on a steak-" Sherlock was seething, his voice lowered but never the less venomous. John felt strong arms—Gallus and another Gladiator, where hoisting him up carefully. Sherlock stormed behind, barking out orders for the men to be cautious. John felt his mind beginning to slip back into unconsciousness, the deep voice of Sherlock binding his heart.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock Holmes was furious. No- wrathful. He wanted to tear out the man's throat that dared touch his John. His man, his slave, his Gladiator. His fingers were trembling, his heart refusing to subside from its raging cage. The youths eyes watched John; the man lay gingerly on a spare bed in one of the guest rooms, his skin gleaming with sweat. The area was warmer here, fresh air and closer to the kitchens—in case of any medicinal help. Sherlock rested his palm on John's arm, feeling the strong muscles shake beneath his touch. They had placed warm blankets around John's naked form, more oil slathered across his body. Sherlock watched as one of the slaves helped John consume more willow tea before he drifted off into a pained sleep.

John's chest was covered in bruises; a cracked rib? Maybe just blunt trauma to the ribcage—he didn't know for certain. Marks ran across his sides; a man's claim—red thin lines made by the nails of the perpetrator. Sherlock didn't need to speculate any further. John had been raped. Raped. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, the youth wanting to spit until the taste was gone.

"I will find out who did this- and when I do...I will have their head, their cock, they headless body for all to see."

Moments later, Sherlock sat tall and stiff, eyes scrutinizing each and every Gladiator before him. He sat in the hall, the warriors spread out like objects on display, but they were here for a more tenebrous reason.

"Who was the last one to care for John, the man from the North?" Sherlocks voice was flat, toneless, but it made each and every man shiver. "Speak or I shall have your tongues served to Pluto and your balls fed to the wild beasts."

"I-I helped him, D-Dominus," Amicus quailed, voice as silent as a summer breeze.

"You found him." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Y-Yes Dominus."

"That man is my property. You are all owned by Modius Holmes, my elder brother but John is mine." Sherlock's eyes caught the shift in the Champion at the mention of John's name. The first time uncertain, but the second flinch when John's name was uttered confirmed the youths suspicion. A dark snake uncurled in Sherlock stomach, a hiss escaping his lips. The Champion: Sulvius.

"What is going on?" A dangerous voice interrupted Sherlock's thoughts on revenge.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

"One of your men_ touched_ my man."

"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft drawled, taking a seat next to his younger sibling. He raised a brow at his Gladiators clearly frozen from fear. Realization grew as Mycroft pursing his lips in what seemed anger, gripped his couch seat, eyes trailing back to his brother.

"Do you know the culprit?"

"I do." Sherlock stated, stealing a glance at the Champion—the man's eyes flashing with disbilief and a touch of fear. Good rumbled the youth silently to himself as he watched the men shift, eyes turning to gaze at their neighbors. All except the one.

"Then by All the Gods, Sherlock, please enlighten me."

"The House of Modius Champion: Sulvius."

Mycroft's brows knitted fiercely, his frown turning into a grimace.

"I can't _kill_ him, Sherlock."

"_WHAT_?" Sherlock bellowed, jumping to his feet, robes billowing around his lithe form.

"He is the Champion of our House. He is the one who brings in the coin- he is my best fighter. I cannot execute him without having someone surpass his skill."

"_I WILL HAVE HIS HEAD ON A SPITE! HE HAS VOILATED MY GLADIATOR! I WILL NOT_-"

"Sherlock."

"_I WILL NOT TOLERATE_-"

"Sherlock."

"WHAT?" Sherlock roared, hands curled into fists.

"I do not doubt your uncanny ability for finding the guilty nor the supernatural skills you possess, but I will say this. I will allow your slave- once he has recovered to take up arms against Sulvius and fight for his honour. If he wins he will be forced to fight on the sands of the arena. He is not known, and will not be well received until he has proven himself. This is what I can offer you."

"That is not-" Sherlock spat, too angered to continue. He let his brother in a sweep of brightly coloured silk, gray green eyes clouded. Mycroft watched his brother storm out. His attention was drawn back to the silent men, their eyes still trained on the stone floor.

"Doctore," Mycroft spoke, his voice like velvet. The Giant nodded, eyes fearful. Modius Holmes was not a man to anger. " See that our Champion is rewarded with fifty lashings, no food or water for three days. If any one should disobey, well-" Mycroft ended in a soft chuckle. He waved a hand, the Gladiators dismissed from his presence.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John woke in a soft bed, wool blankets wrapped around his form. It was nightfall. He groaned, his head feeling heavy but not as sickly as he had been before. He shifted, but stilled as he felt the warmth lying against his side. Sherlock Holmes was resting, an arm thrown over the blondes chest, his hair a nest of ebony locks. John managed a grin. The youth looked like a God; his pale skin enhanced by the moonlight, pink lips sightly parted while long lashes decorating his features. John felt his arm numb, the one that Sherlock was lying upon. He tried to move, without disrupting the slumbering man, but Sherlock shifted, then jumped wide awake.

"John! How are you feeling? No-wait-" John felt the slim fingers brush his forehead. "You're fevers still there, but the temperature has shifted for the better."

"I feel better," lied John, his head artfully disagreeing.

"Nonsense. I can tell when you're lying. Just rest, regain you're strength. You have a battle to win."

"Wha-What battle?" John asked utterly confused, his skin erupting in goosebumps as Sherlock trailed a finger over his bare muscles. "What are you talking about?"

"I know what happened, John." Sherlock's voice was a whisper as he kissed John amidst his golden hair. "In order for the shit of a man to die, you must fight him. Kill him and make him suffer. Maybe slash him wide open, his guts spilling unto the sands, spear out his eyes, shatter every bone-"

"Sherlock," John choked, his gaze avoiding the intense eyes of his lover. The man who he cared for had found out.

"You are mine, John Watson from the North. My Golden One."

John blushed crimson, as Sherlock tilted his face back towards his own, lips sliding gently across his chapped mouth. He groaned in the dark haired man's mouth, tasting sweet apple and walnut. The kiss deepened, turning almost feral, but John gasped as his side reminded him of his current state.

"Sorry," John mumbled, wondering why on earth he was apologizing. " Hold that thought. No I'm not."

Sherlock raised a perfect brow, before both men burst into silent giggles. John had to force himself to silence for his body ached with the efforts to laugh.

"Oh, I got something in the market, I'd though you'd enjoy..." Sherlock grinned sheepishly, John wondering why Sherlock had bothered to buy him anything at all. From within his robes, the warrior saw the flash of bone. He looked in awe at the intricate carvings, his golden eyes bright.

"_Thank-you_." John, trembled at the nearness of the youth, as his [Sherlocks] body pressed up while reaching behind the blondes neck and tying the necklace around his throat. John shivered ( it wasn't due to the brisk evening air) as he tried to push away the thoughts of the man who had defiled him; but even after being taken by another man, Sherlock was still here, by his side, running pale fingers on his brow . Giving him such a precious gift. Refusing to let tears fall, he leaned into Sherlock's embrace, allowing the nightmares to fade.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the long awaited update taking so long. I have been so busy with work and have recently taken up boxing. I feel so tired and haven't had a spare moment to write. Its around 1am and sorry if this chapter is a bit bah ( kind of an airhead right now so apology in advance) The next chapter will heat up a bit more. Muhahahaa. Thanks for all the support with the comments and favorites and the watches. You make my day (or night) ;)!**

**-Awhoha**

Three days. Three very long days of sleepless nights, constant orders and mindless conversation. Sherlock sat at the edge of the bath as his feet, dangling on either sides of John Watson, idly swirled the warm rose scented water. His long slender fingers—skin so pale it shone in alabaster in the morning sun, entwined themselves in John's golden hair. His chin rested atop the man's head breathing in the warrior. John had healed, his body quick at recovery. He still winced when he shifted at an odd angle; his bruises now a dull brown.

"You're tickling me. Stop it." John whispered. Sherlock raised his head with a hum, his fingers pinching the top of the man's ears. John shifted, hand coming to rest above his lovers. The pinching ceased, the younger taking up the act of caressing the back of the tanned hand. John, tilting his head until it connected with a solid chest, looked up into the gray green eyes, the flawless skin, the god like appearance. The youth wore a simple robe of white covering his thighs, a thin trim of green and gold. His nipples were a pale flush, his taunt muscles in tune with his movements. John felt his loins burn, glad for the thousands of petals floating along side his chest, obscuring his lower half. He had been bedridden for three days; he hadn't felt Sherlock's touch in what seemed a life time and John felt the need to have the man's hands over his body; his mouth tasting his flesh; his eyes boring into his very soul.

"Do you want to come in?" John suggested, voice soft with lust. Sherlock shook his head, placing a soft kiss on the water streaked temple, ignoring the man's frown.

"You need to soak; ease the soreness of your muscles."

"My body is fine, Sherlock. Really."

"You've just successfully managed to avoid death by fever, two cracked ribs, massive bruising, and-" Sherlock's voice dwindled off, rage consuming his starry gaze. " Don't tell me you're fine."

"Alright. Sore, I am still very bloody sore." John confessed irritably, eyes wandering across the rippling water. His free hand plucked up a few stray red petals; as soft as silk. Damn Sherlock and his constant worry. So what if his arms were weary, his back ached, his legs felt like they would tear open; he was alive. He had experience worse and survived. He always did.

"When you're healed—no and I mean healed as in completely, then you will take back your honor by beheading that-"

"Sherlock."

"-cocksucking putrid excuse for a man- no not even a man; a low life sewage scumming-"

"Sherlock."

The darker haired youth paused, looking down at the warrior whose lips were parted, tongue tasting the water droplets on rosen lips. Eyes as gold as the bracelet Sherlock wore, simmered with heat. A callused hand wrapped itself around the Dominus' jaw, fingers shaking ever so gently.

" I'm not scarred by what happened. I am a warrior, Sherlock, a damn good one at that." John muttered, lips tweaking a smile. "and this man wants you in the water. I want your cock- your deliciously large, hardened cock thrusting inside me."

Sherlock simply stared, eyes narrowing. He pressed his lips hard against John's, a sinful groan erupting from inside the warriors chest. With every ounce of will power, the youth raised his head, finger tracing the swollen lips.

"When you are healed-"

"You don't want to?" John asked, disappointment lacing his voice.

"It's not that I don't want to, its-"

"It's because of what happened, isn't it. You don't want me, can't stand the thought can you!" John hissed, pushing off the bath wall. He moved towards the center of the pool like bath, the water lapping around his abdomen. Sherlock swore viciously, jumping into the water. His clothing ran along beside him as he gripped John's cheeks in a fierce grasp. He bruised the man's lips, forced his tongue deep inside as John struggled to breathe.

"Oh by all the Gods, John! How I want you."

"Then why?" John tried to sound angry but Sherlock's half naked form towering over him and those eyes—by all his Gods, those eyes would be the death of him. Sherlock was panting as if he had just run from city to city.

"I didn't think you would want me to- so soon after- your body is still recovering-" Sherlock rambled on, fingers running across the smooth jaw line, eliciting a shiver through the smaller man's stature.

"Oh I want you to," John growled, nipping at the long elegant neck. Sherlock rumbled as John sucked then ran teeth over bone. His strong fingers ran up the white chest, legs swinging up to wrap around the thin waist, his lightness created by the water. His Dominus slid his hands from his face down to his back, securing him in place. With one arm firm, a pale finger traced down the warrior's sacrospinalis, seeking out the entrance which was in desperate want of such attention. John gritted his teeth in pain as he was breached, a hiss of trapped air hitting Sherlock on the shoulder. The pain disappeared as Sherlock removed the digit allowing John to let out a reluctant sigh of both disappointment and relief.

"Once you're properly healed," Sherlock whispered. John bit his lip; he desperately wanted Sherlock moving inside but his mind (and half his body) disagreed. He gasped as a hand encircled his cock and began a painfully slow pace.

"This. _This_ we can indulge in."

The blonde nodded dumbly,pupils blown wide. He wrapped an arm around his lover's broad shoulders, his other hand clumsily following suit. They rutted in the water while silent eyes watched from the various corners of the room. The other slaves stood like shadowed statues until Sherlock jerked his head in dismissal. They vacated the premises silently, leaving behind the dance of sliding flesh and water.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John entered the Pit, his hand shielding his eyes from the bright light. The grunts, curses and bellows did not cease as he approached, to which the warrior was grateful. He did not want pity. A loud roar rushed him; Gallus soon gripping the shorter man in a crushing embrace.

"I thought we might have lost you to the Underworld!"

"_Cnt- bret_-" John tried, his windpipe feeling uncomfortably constricted. A laugh and he was released, the oxygen like sweet bliss. The bronze Gladiator beamed as John clasped his outstretched hand in greeting.

"You ready for a bout, John?" Gallus asked, eyeing John's figure. The blonde nodded curtly, gaze searching for Sulvius, finding the Pit empty. A few of the Champions men, spat down upon the ground as John caught their eye; a leer shot his way. His friend caught his guarded gaze, and murmured to the warrior.

"Sulvius is out of the Pit until the evening. He fought the previous night and won, so he indulges in wine, women or men."

"The rewards of a Champion." John remarked, his tone low and dangerous.

"Are you-" Gallus hesitated, unsure on the words to chose. He had seen the state his friend had been found in; had helped him into the Dominus' chambers. John flashed him a look before curtly replying.

"I'm fine."

Gallus nodded in understanding, tossing a sword over to the blonde, who gratefully accepted the sparring prop.

"I heard that tonight there will be a great feast ."

"Don't they always?" John chuckled while Gallus shrugged his shoulders.

"But this night is something extravagant, so the rumors have spread."

"What?" John grunted as he dodged a blow. Gallus stepped forwards, spinning on his heel.

"There is a new patron for the Games. He is to be the guest of the House."

"And this is something to be excited about?"

"Patrons are powerful. They-" Gallus winced as John landed a blow to his side, " hold the hand over the Houses who enter the Games."

John ducked low, twisting his already protesting limbs and brought up the sword under his opponents throat. Gallus knocked the offending wooden blade down with his spear, and aimed a kick at John's solar plexus. The blonde caught the leg in a grip, his ankle sweeping in under the other forcing the taller man crashing into the sand. With renewed vigor John straddled the broad chest, his weapon aimed at the jugular vein pulsing wildly inches from the swords tip. Gallus was breathing hard, eyes trained on the weapon, a grin spreading across his face.

"Well done, little man."

"Little man?" John giggled, sliding off and helping the bronze Gladiator to his feet. "This little man just kicked your ass."

They fought until both men were dripping sweat, sand streaked across every pore on their bodies. The lunch call was sounded, the Gladiators gratefully abandoning their weapons, their stomachs squabbling with hunger.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Mycroft Holmes stood surveying the Gladiators as they made their way for their afternoon meal. The oldest brother of the House of Modius clicked his fingers against a goblet of fine red wine, the single ring tapping the silver rhythmically. The man, with eyes narrowed and a slight tick in his neck, watched as his brother's Gladiator disappeared into the eating quarters. The man, seemingly harmless, was dangerous; power hid in his fine form, golden eyes filled with fire and the man fought like an animal. Mycroft felt the lines around his face tighten in worry, his stomach a knot of concern. Was this warrior, this common man, worthy of his brother's attentions? Sherlock had been most...demanding in his concern with John Watson; almost obsessive. But then again, his little brother had been more agreeable since the arrival of the slave. Mycroft sniffed, the wine quenching his thirst coming to a conclusion. The solution was simple; if the man caused any trouble or posed any threat, Mycroft would see to it that John Watson be disposed of.

"Is something the matter, Mycroft? Or is it just something you ate?" The drawl broke through the older man's thoughts as Mycroft turned to find Sherlock standing beside him.

"How kind of you to voice your concerns, dear brother."

"I'm not concerned, merely observing."

"How touching." Mycroft stated dryly, brow rising as Sherlock snatched the wine from his grasp. The younger sipped the drink, pursing his lips in distaste before handing the wine back over to Mycroft. "I see that you have presented your slave a gift. How thoughtful of you, Sherlock."

"A simple leather and bone necklace. A trifle of small importance."

"A bit personal for you, isn't it?"

"How is Anthea? I hear she is being given the utmost care, oh and not to mention the most accommodating living quarters; that being your chambers? How personal indeed, Mycroft."

The older Holmes temple jumped with anger, managing to keep his tongue in check. Instead he gazed down upon the sands, the ground a pit of blood, sweat and tears.

"Our family has endured hardship and suffering to build this House. The Senate has offered me a higher standing; I have accepted as I am the only one who seems to care how this family survives. I may be a person of power but-"

"Jim Moriarty poses a threat." Sherlock finished, a bitter taste contaminating his tongue.

"Indeed he does. He is a serious threat to Rome, that I cannot allow. However in order to understand his true motives for returning to our City, we need to get close; have him in our good graces. Whatever he wants, we shall give with a smile until- well until that time comes there needn't be any further discussions."

"What are you suggesting, Mycroft, that I place myself at his disposal? That I dance for him, be at his beck and call?"

"If need be."

"I refuse."

"By Jupiter, you will do it for the House, Sherlock. You used to be friends-"

"Competitors. Friends? Never."

"Then do it for John Watson."

"Oh no. Don't drag John into your schemes."

"The man is involved either way. Moriarty controls most of the Senate and to mention the top patron. He holds the red thread of the Gladiators in his palm; the life of your precious John held in that man's hand."

Sherlock flared his nostrils, fists curled over the side of the balcony. The dark haired youth cursed, smashing his fist against the stone. With a twirl of white cloth, Sherlock hurriedly left his brother to stare after him, green eyes masking his anxiety. Mycroft inwardly sighed. Taking one final sip, the oldest Holmes began to prepare. They had a festival to throw.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the long wait, everyone! It's the weekend so I had some time to write. forgive spelling pls ;) Enjoy :)**

**-Awhoha**

Laughter filled the air as drink after drink replaced the half empty goblets. Men wearing masks of the Gods reclined on low couches lined with fine red satin, their dress askew. Pigments of various colours coated the flesh to match robes of fine reds, white, blues, and creams. Assortments of fruit piled high on silver platters were presented, servants silently moving throughout the crowded room. The center table to which most of the guests encircled, was masked by a mouthwatering feast; fine biscuits, rolls, dishes cooked with artichokes, olives, leeks, beans and other fine delicacies. Dancers swung their hips, thin cloth scarcely concealing the smooth flesh beneath. Whistles cut through the gaiety as males tried to snatch women unto their laps, faces red with fine food and rich wine. Wives curled by their husbands sides, their garments slipping to reveal full breasts.

Sherlock Modius Holmes plucked a grape from its brethren enjoying the crisp yet satisfying taste as the fruit exploded against his tongue. He watched with cool green gray eyes, the grinning man sitting across from him, a woman rubbing his shoulders. Sherlock gulped the watered wine, not really tasting the drink as it vanished from the goblet.

"This truly is a marvelous banquet, Sherlock."

"Mycroft does know how to entertain to a degree. Despite the over crowded room, the table overflowing with edibles, the horrific taste in entertainment; I should say he does put on quite a show," Sherlock sniffed. His glance flickered over to a man seated three bodies to the left, now grunting in delight—a slave bumping down on his engorged prick.

"_Hmmm_. You must be _dying_ to know why I am here, aren't you- Sherlock Holmes."

"Why you even bothered to come back at all, is a mystery in itself." Sherlock raised a brow, voice calm and restrained as his attention was returned to his guest. Jim Moriarty grinned revealing a set of perfect teeth. His eyes, appearing as if they were dark pitfalls of endless darkness, gleamed across his goblet.

"Oh, not a mystery. I _missed_ you- got tired of all the traveling around."

"I highly doubt that." Sherlock was resting a hand under his chin now, long fingers tapping to an unheard rhythm, trying his best to ignore that pointed stare.

"You always know how to dampen the mood, don't you Holmes." Moriarty rotated his neck, the woman's hands searching the muscle. " Oh that's the _spot_." The woman dug deeper, thin fingers running their course.

"You are to Patron the Games; I would so like to know how you weaseled your way in-"

"Weaseled? _Hardly_. What would cause you to think such thoughts?" the man's voice irritated Sherlock to no end; his tones shifting from a deep octave to a high note at a moments notice. Jim nodded to the throng of strong Gladiators standing to the far South wall, their eyes fixated ahead. "I will also be entering the Games, call it a fetish of mine. By Jupiter, it will be glorious will it not? The blood, the sweat- did I mention the blood?"

"They fight for honour and glory." Sherlock gritted his teeth, thinking of how John fought on the sands, his sweat glistening under the heat of the sun. A _tsk_ slipped through the other man's mouth, eyes snapping back to the youth.

"Now that's where you are wrong, Holmes. They fight because it is what I desire, they are slaves—men without souls. If I command them to suck cock, they suck cock. Their lives in the palm of my hand. " Jim Moriarty chuckled waving the woman away, sitting further up from his seat. "From what I hear, you also possess such a man in hold. I do so much wish to see this Gladiator of yours. All the Gladiators of the House of Modius to be more precise."

"I delightfully decline-"

"Again with the theatrics!"

"I do not -"

"I can refuse every man from this House from entering in the Games," Moriarty's voice went deadly, all note of playfulness vanishing. "Would you wish your House, your precious brother, to fall into ruin?"

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock felt his skin prickle, eyes never leaving the black orbs even as Mycroft Modius Holmes approached.

"I was expressing my desire to view your Gladiators—I hear you have the best in Rome."

"We offer Rome a favorable list," Mycroft smiled, the attempt not reaching his gaze. He glanced at his brother who was now attacking the grapes in earnest. Not a good sign.

"How modest!" Jim Moriarty gasped, eyes wide in mock surprise. He grinned, showing teeth as Mycroft nodded with a snap of his fingers; an order to ready his Gladiators. Sherlock ran his tongue over back molars, furious. He spared Mycroft a stormy glare knowing—hating how true it was, that no matter what power they possessed in Capua, Moriarty held the strings connecting the individual threads. Sherlock, no matter how he presented himself to the outside world, cared deep down for his older sibling. He did not want everything Mycroft had worked for to descend into rubble. However, if the man [Moriarty] crossed the boundary, Sherlock would use every atom to end his existence.

*o.O.o.o.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson winced, his sore ribs protesting as the men were herded into a line, all the while trying to ignore the tightening of his belly as Sulvius stepped into view. The man had just returned from a night and day of whoring; the smell of sex still clinging to his flesh. The warrior stared ahead, not wanting to relieve the nightmare that still clawed at his chest as the Giant paced down the assembled group of warriors, whip in Doctore, fierce in all his glory, thinned his lips as he inspected his fighters; the Gladiators, freshly washed from the baths, deemed presentable—clad in loincloths and leather with a faint scent of musk.

"We have all been summoned. You are to remain silent unless spoken to; bring honour to this House. Honour the sands, honour the earth and honour the Dominus!"

An approving shout broke out, the men then escorted through the tunnels and into the main House. As they continued across the marble floors, John could hear the fast approaching roars of laughter, the music of musicians, the tempo of dancers. A young girl tossed scented water over their heads as they marched into the vast hall, the festivities drowning their ears. John glanced about, his heart racing in astonishment. He had never seen such debauchery. Men, faces hidden behind masks; save for a few, where openly indulging in carnal pleasure. Others gorged themselves on the succulent feast that was present, the smell awakening the saliva in the Gladiators mouths. Women, bare breasts battling the cool air, moaned wantonly; hands seeking, mouths teasing. Wine stained togas decorated the exposed bodies of many, the House a jungle of sexual pleasure.

John's golden eyes fell to the one man that stood out above the rest. Tall, pale skin that shone under torch light, a mass of tangled black curls that decorated a handsome face. Gray green eyes burned his skin, thin pink lips pressed tight in what seemed to John, anger. John felt a heat flush throughout his body, his cheeks giving in to a blush. Sherlock's eyes weren't the only ones that seemed to bore into his being. Hungry orbs hidden behind the golden disguises turned towards the gladiators, drinking in their godlike bodies. John, feeling utterly exposed, held his hands firmly by his side, fists tightly balled. This was the night Gallus had mentioned; the festival that Sherlock's brother was hosting for the Patron.

"The House of Modius presents our Gladiators," Mycroft roared while raising a full glass of wine, the red liquid spilling over the brim. Consentaneous murmurs rose like waves. Sherlock watched the crowd, bile rising. He could taste the lust rising in the room, the want to run greedy hands along the hard expanse of marbled muscle. He held back a snarl as Jim moved, as graceful as a cat, striding towards the line up. Other followed like sheep, eager to lay a touch.

"What magnificent Gladiators," the irritating tone pierced through the hubbub, hiding a low dangerous purr. Moriarty stood in front of Sulvius, the Champion keeping his vision ahead. A hand ran up the warriors neck, feeling the pulse under the heated flesh and pressed. "Name."

"Sulvius, Champion of the House of Modius your Grace."

"Ah, the Champion. The man who has yet to fall." Moriarty drawled and moved down the line, allowing the masked bodies to press up on the Champion; hands trailing along every inch of exposed skin. "_Boring_."

Sherlock observed with amplified rage as the Patron moved closer to his John, teeth digging into tongue as the man stopped, coal eyes locked on the golden man. He lunged off the couch as Moriarty reached out a hand to cup John's jaw. The breath flew out of the youth's lungs as a strong arm reached out to end his movements, wrapping around his shoulder. Sherlock, his snarl lost in the boisterous horde, gave his brother a look that could have killed a man.

"He is touching John; look at his eyes, his eyes are blown! Pupils dilated, fingers itching to touch, mouth curved into a smug line -"

"Let it _go_, Sherlock...there is nothing, you nor I can do about it."

"I don't care if he is Romes Patron, I will not allow him to casually defile my man!"

"Then what will you do, Sherlock? I will not have you anger Jim Moriarty and bring his wrath upon this House; all for a simple slave."

"John is _not_ a simple slave," Sherlock spat venom with every word, Mycroft wincing at his younger siblings tone. Did John Watson, the slave his brother had purchased at a market, mean so much to him that he was willing to throw their family to ruin?

John meanwhile was trying not to move while the man before him studied him, almost as if he were appraising some kind of merchandise. The man, dark of hair with midnight orbs was the same height as the warrior, yet carried himself with dangerous authority. A feeling of dread washed over the blonde as the hand trailed downwards to the expanse of his chest. John saw, from the corner of his eye, that the rest of the Gladiators were being manhandled by women; wives intrigued by the wild beasts.

"What do they call you, Gladiator?" Jim shivered with new delight as John's abdominis shuddered under his feather light touch. "You must be Sherlock's pet—how entertaining."

"John Watson, your Grace." John managed, licking his dry lips in an attempt to calm himself. Every nerve, every bone was warning him against this man. His golden eyes flickered to where his Dominus was standing; the youth dressed in a toga made with the finest silk.

"How rare for Sherlock to become obsessed; with a slave no less." Moriarty breathed, circling around the man, palm gliding along the warriors shoulders, fingers brushing along the leather necklace. "What secrets do you hold,_ Johnny Boy_, to make the great Sherlock Holmes trip over his own two feet?"

John remained silent, arms hanging loosely at his sides, unsure of how to reply. Without warning, Moriarty spun, his eyes sweeping over the crowd.

"How about some fun then, ladies and gentlemen? A practice bout between beasts?"

"Fighting should be left to the sands," Mycroft broke in, tone dry.

"By the Gods, Modius Holmes. Has your cock shriveled up and fallen in a ditch somewhere? Are your men so weak as they are useless?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Even Sherlock, who clearly disagreed with the events of the evening, straightened his spine an unknown emotion playing in his beautiful gaze. The youth didn't care for the honour of the men, just the honour of his man.

"A small demonstration for the guests," the oldest Holmes relented, motioning for an area to be cleared. "May I suggest the Champion against-"

"The golden Gladiator." Jim Moriarty crowed, the word _fight_ riding the air as both men and woman shouted, eyes wild. The Patron smirked as he regained his seat, Mycroft's teeth clench tightly against one another. "John Watson."

John felt his stomach plummet deep into a dark abyss. Numbly he accepted the wooden sword pressed into his grasp, felt a hand push him into the now vast circle surrounded by lusty unknowns.

"I ask for a bout and you present sticks? No, no, no, no. Steel swords; I shall have nothing less." Jim shouted gleefully, a cup of wine snaking past his lips. Shrill laughter flowed freely from the people, hands groping at exposed breasts, others for cock. Sherlock, the veins threatening to explode out of his neck, gripped his seat with white fingers as real swords were sought out for the two men. Mycroft slide down slowly, Anthea immediately by his side with more drink.

"Give the word," Jim bit his lip, voice as soft as silk. "and let the _fun_ begin."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sweat leeched down John's side, his ribs on the verge of snapping. His golden hair was wild, eyes tapered in concentration. He dodged a blow, the people roaring around him. His ears rang, mind swimming, while he brought down a strike to the Champions leg. Sulvius hissed, dodging the blow and slicing John's arm; a small yet thick gash to the upper deltoid. The blonde grimaced but brought an elbow to Sulvius' face, causing the man to stagger back. In a swift movement John returned the favor to the Champions side. They sprang apart, the sweat smell of sweat invading their nostrils.

Sherlock tapped his fingers, clearly disturbed. John was bleeding, so much blood from such a small wound. Small yes, but deep. He would need to be stitched up, his rib cage re bandaged; more herbs; more tonic for his recovery. The toll was taking hold on both men, Sherlock noted, but he had eyes only for John. They had been at it for roughly fifteen minutes, and Sherlock was beginning to grow restless. He needed to take care of John, not watch him fall to pieces in front of his very eyes.

"The man surprises me," Jim offered to no one in particular, eyes fixated on the blonde. "A diamond in the rough- it just needs_ polishing_. Cut into something exquisite-"

"John needs no such thing," Sherlock couldn't help but grind out. Those black eyes turned towards him, his face a blank slate; unreadable.

"Are you sentimental about your pet? You've had him, what three months-"

"Three months sixteen days and fourteen hours."

"By all the Gods, the great Sherlock Modius Holmes, cares what one says about a slave? The day has actually arrived!"

Sherlock tilted his head, nostrils flaring.

"And what day might that be, exactly?"

"Why the day that Sherlock cares for someone other than himself."

They stared at each other for what seemed a lifetime when a howl brought both young men back into the present. Both Gladiators had their swords pointed at one anothers throats, chests rapidly rising and falling. John, with the height disadvantage, made up for it being pressed in close, hand in a vice grip around the other man's wrist.

"A draw," Mycroft raised a brow, amazed at John's performance, given the state he was in; he gained a new respect for the warrior. "Magnificent."

"Yes. Yes_ indeed_." Moriarty breathed, unheard by all.


	9. Chapter 9

**_I AM SOOOO SOOO UBER DUPPER SORRY for the insane wait. I have been having writers block for months as well as being swamped with work. I find that I don't have much time for writing, but i will try and update as much as I can! Forgive me!Also too, sorry for the grammer etc.  
><em>**

**_-Awhoha_**

"Is he really that powerful?"

The question hung as John waited for an answer. The marble was smooth beneath his bare feet as the warrior sat under the stars, the banquet now a memory. The guests had long gone, leaving the House a quiet shell. Crickets sang in the distance their chorus a peaceful hymn. The blond bit his lip, the mysteries of the night forgotten as cold balm stung his heated flesh. Small hands gently applied the ointment to his wounds, his chest rebound with fresh bandages. A woman deftly threaded a needle, blood oozing between pinched fingers as she worked the wounds closed.

"What? No. Yes. What does it matter?"

John winced as the herbal paste bit through the fresh stitches, his arm now red with irritation. His eyes watched in concern at Sherlock. The man was leaned against the pillar, face cast in shadow.

"I am trying to understand what that was all about. You're not being very helpful."

"It is of no concern."

"Why not?"

"Your a slave- what does it matter!" Sherlock drew a hand through the air, not wanting to discuss matters further.

John quickly swallowed the bitter taste, golden eyes focusing on his wounds. Mistaking the gesture Sherlock crossed his arms, gray green eyes dangerous.

"Did she not mend your wounds properly? " Sherlock growled, narrowing his eyes at the female who hastily bowed in fearful apology.

"My wounds have been tended with care. Thank-you," John hastily thanked the woman who vanished back into the night, not wanting to further fuel her Masters anger. John shivered, feeling very alone. The moon, in hopes of creating a warm embrace, shone down her light. The wind, however, blew forth the cold north breeze, eliciting goosebumps across the warriors skin. "I should return to -"

"No."

"What?"

"I do not relish _repeating_ myself, John."

"Why are you so foul of temper?"

Sherlock pushed himself off the marble, striding over to the steps. He stood tall, eyes level with the warrior. John grew warm as those pale hands reached his jaw, thumb caressing cheekbones now yellowing with bruises.

"You are a mystery to me, John Watson."

"Am I?" John croaked. He was finding those hands distracting.

"I find it rather perilous," Sherlock breathed. He ran heated lips, immensely pleased with himself as John gave into a needy moan. The lips were one of the erogenous zones that the human body possessed, and Sherlock knew how sensitive John's mouth could be.

John's mouth gently parted, allowing Sherlock to brush against the blonde's lower lip. John pressed closer, his good hand reaching out to cup the youth's chin, tilting to deepen the kiss. The darker haired man grinned, tongue asking for permission. John parted slightly, savoring the taste of Sherlock. The smaller man giggled as the youth explored the tip of his tongue, tugging Sherlock closer. Sherlock's mind halted as John began to press further, fingers sliding down his long slender neck.

"But really, who is he?" John whispered. Sherlock rolled his eyes, mouth turning down into an ugly frown.

"By all the Gods, John why must you insist upon matters that are of no importance?"

"It matters to me!"

"Why? Why must it matter to you?"

"Your burden is mine to carry, Sherlock." The statement was blunt, so blunt that as John watched, heart pounding in his chest at the unreadable expression in the gray green eyes, time seemed to stop as though awaiting an answer.

Sherlock sniffed, turning away from the shorter man. Strange emotions were starting to shift creating rifts in his heart, rifts that he found frightening.

"You know what ill plagues you?" John broke out, unable to bear the silence any longer. " You do not have faith. I am here, Sherlock. I fight for you, I would kill for you. All I -"

"I do not want you to become involved in mindless politics." Sherlock hissed, hand tugging at his hair.

It was at that moment when the Heavens thundered. Rain fell from the sky as the music of raindrops echoed throughout the city. John watched as Sherlock's hair clung in wet curls, his pale skin beaded with rain. The blonde, sheltered under the roof, wanted to stand by the youth's side but he dared not move. Eyes were locked on one another, mouths pressed in firm lines.

"I do not care if it is mindless politics, Sherlock, the burden is also mine. Trust in me."

John shivered. Sherlock's robes clung to his body,defining his tall slender form. His full lips were taunt, eyes unreadable. John felt a heat run unchecked. The warrior reached out ignoring the sudden rain hitting his flesh, his hand trembling gently at the thought of caressing that pearl flesh so near his grasp.

"Trust is the way of defeat."

The outstretched arm froze at the voice. Harsh. Cold. Emotionless.

"You do what is asked of you; to fight, to fuck. Nothing else is of consequence."

John blinked; it hurt. The space between his breast ached, as through he had been dealt a physical blow. The blond furrowed his brow, lip numb between his teeth.

"Is that what I am to you, then?"

"John-"

"It must have been my imagination then, to even think, for one moment, that you cared for me. You, Sherlock Modius Holmes, can not place faith in the one who respects you above all else?"

Sherlock stared. John's face was red, golden eyes narrowed in rage. He trembled, fist tightly clenched while trying to calm the volcano within. Never had the man raised his voice as he had just now done.

"You want answers."

John's golden gaze swept up to the youths face. Sherlock was unmoving, gray eyes tired. It was as if many years had been added to his guise. Without a word, Sherlock, drenched with Heaven's mercy, disappeared into the House with John silently following, praying for some means of clarity.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John watched as Sherlock slipped out of his robes, discarding the wet fabric. A muscle twitched in the blonde's jaw as Sherlock stood naked in the firelight, long limbs adorning new cloth upon his figure.

"So Moriarty was a pupil at the same academy you attended."

"Yes."

"He's your enemy."

"_Obviously_."

"And you think he's plotting some kind of revenge then?"

"Hardly. He enjoys the Game."

"Game?"

"Yes, John the Game; manipulating, plotting, scheming. Need I say more? It's all about the _power_."

"Then you need to be careful."

"This really irritates you. Why would this irritate you?"

John licked his lips knowing that Sherlock was watching; always watching under his hawk like glance, eyes bright as steel. The warrior stared out the terrace, hoping the other man would overlook his beating heart. The youth must have lost interest for he fell upon he bed with a sigh, rubbing his forehead as John breathed relief.

"What could he gain? He already has sway over the Senate, control over sections of the city and now Patron!"

John turned his eyes towards Sherlock, hearing a tone to which worry rose within. He knew that voice.

"You're going to do something foolish."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You used that tone when you told me you would stay by my side at the market, to which you ignored and took off after-"

"The man had stolen a goat and I had nothing happening with-"

"He would have spilled your blood if he had had the chance- but the point is that you say this Moriarty is of no consequence yet you seem to think of little else!" John frowned as the younger man picked up a stringed instrument, the sweet sound filling the room.

John allowed the soft music of the lute to wash through. The melody was alluring, yet it seemed to hide darkness within as Sherlock's alabaster fingers slid across the strings. John felt his cheeks flush as he watched the man's hands. Such beautiful hands.

"When a man stares with such intent, how should one respond?"

"I fail to understand," John mumbled, shifting his weight on the bed. He shivered as the music died out, Sherlock suddenly thrust upon his lap. A hand kneaded itself into the locks of gold, bringing in the warrior. John melted into the kiss, biting gently down and sucking against those sinful lips. He jumped slightly as Sherlock ran a cold hand down his chest, fingers circling a taunt nipple. A gasp escaped John as Sherlock squeezed, nail biting in against flesh.

"I want you on your back, legs spread."

John felt the weight vanish, heart racing. Hands clumsy with need, the golden eyed man shrugged out of his lioncloth, ignoring wounds as he lay back, body fully exposed. Sherlock threw open his robe, cock already hard with the urge to fuck the man beneath him. John arched his back, hips up, allowing Sherlock to encirle his back with a heated embrace. John rocked forwards, their shafts moving harshly against each other. John hissed as the youth ran a hand down his spine, finger slipping between his cleft. He shifted feeling the slight burn of the intrusion; Sherlock managed a grin as the finger drove deeper. John's stomach shook with each shallow thrust as he moved himself against the digits, allowing the second finger to enter.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock_-"

John whispered the name with every breath, pressing his lips against the pale throat, bringing the man flush against his chest. Curls entangled themselves through John's fingers; bronze mixing with ebony.

"Wider, John." Sherlock breathed, his other palm tracing the inside of the warriors thigh. A tremor rose through as finger was replaced with cock. John gritted his teeth.

"Too big-"

"_Breathe_-"

"_Hhmmmh_-" John threw back his head, grasping Sherlock tighter. With golden eyes closed, the man blew through his nose trying to focus on the feeling of his lover throbbing inside. Unable to bear much longer, Sherlock snapped forward, relishing in the elicit moan that emanated from below.

"Shameless." Sherlock drove John further up the bed, silk twisting beneath both bodies. The blonde grasped at the other man's waist in desperation as hot cum weeped down his sex. Feeling the youth not far behind as the deep thrusts became frantic, John clenched tight around Sherlock, earning an inaudible cry as the youth came. Minutes after basking in the bliss of release, Sherlock felt John shift beneath.

"Shit."

Sherlock glanced down at John, seed splashed over his belly, and cursed. The warriors wound had once again began to weep red tears, blood staining the sheets. The youth hastily pulled out of his man, shouting for a servant to bring new bandages.

"Don't concern yourself Sher-" John began but the darker haired man cut him off with a glare. The slave boy, Amicus, rushed in, a terrified look set upon his face.

"Don't just stand there! Grab fresh cloth and ointment. Are you deaf? Move!" Sherlock flung his robes for effect, hands waving wildly. John felt the boy's eyes dart over his naked form; body displayed in a mixture of sweat, semen, and blood before rushing out of the room.

"You don't have to do that."

"Hmm?"

"Scare that poor boy half to death."

"You're injured; you need new bandages. Besides he was just standing their looking like an idiot!"

Watching Sherlock pace, robe rippling behind him, John decided not to argue. Letting out a tired sigh, John closed his eyes, Sherlock's shouting echoing in his ears.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Does it hurt?"

John looked up from the basin, skin dripping with water. Rubbing the droplets from his eyes, the blond raised a brow at Amicus. The boy stood by the door, a fresh change of clothes folded neatly over his arms.

"Sorry, what?"

"Last night-"

"The wound is nothing to worry abo -"

"I heard you." The boy flushed scarlet, eyes pinned to the floor. "It sounded like you were in pain."

"Hold on, you mean-" John felt his jaw drop, cheeks burning. Rubbing a hand over his face , John found himself speechless. " That was-"

"Did you enjoy it?" The boy stuttered, the balls of his feet shifting across the marble. John coughed as Amicus turned eyes to stare.

"It was- last night- I- yes. Yes I did."

"What did you enjoy? By the Gods! Look's like you took a beating by Mars himself." The deep voice echoed around John's quarters. The warrior turned to find the gladiator Gallus leaning in the entrance way eying his bruises from the nights match. Amicus handed John his clothes, hastily fleeing the company of the two men.

"Then Mars has been kind, as I am still alive."

"Bastard!" Gallus laughed, slapping John across the back. "I hope you have your strength; training for the Games begins today. Pray to the Gods; Mars may yet spare you from his gaze. We shall need all the blessing for the Sands."


	10. UPDATE

Story Updates:

Hi everyone. I know I have been absent from fanfiction for a very long time and my stories have not been updated. I had a fall at work and injured my right arm. I have been attending physio and massage therapy to help my arm heal and this has been going on for months. My goal is to start writing again soon and keep these stories flowing. I will try to start writing again this weekend, so please bare with me.

Cheers,

Awhoha


	11. Chapter 10

**Hi everyone. So I actually managed a short chapter. I hope to write more for my other stories soon...but this was a big step for me. I haven't typed anything in so long :) Well I hope you enjoy it. Comments are enlivening! Yah! Cheers -**

**Awhoha**

It was a defining roar; a sound so great that it shook the very foundation on the Arena. Men glanced through the cracked boards and iron bars to catch a glimpse of the Sands, their bodies taut with anticipation. Others, the younger brethren, whispered prayers to the Gods, their fear of survival written across their guises. The smell was of dirt, sweat and stench. Rays of sunshine broke through the roofs that were lined with red cloth, the wind offering a welcome hand. Horses neighed their retorts while hooves dug into the hot sand now tainted with blood. Shouts of triumph followed by the bellow of anger filled the Arena as the Romans dragged the body towards the lions below.

John could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He sat apart from the others, eyes closed and breath steady. The day had finally arrived. The past few months had flown by in preparation for the Games, leaving John nothing but training. Forever, it had seemed, since John had last laid eyes upon Sherlock. The warrior knew that his Dominus would be present; watching the carnage below with eyes that shone with mysterious brilliance, the familiar quirk of lips. He had sensed those greyish eyes upon him during training, but John did not have the leisure of responding to those glances, no matter how much he desired it. There had been many lonely nights spent wondering, wishing for a dream that would never be. To feel those strong delicate hands caress his flesh, those lips to forcibly steal kisses.

Horns sounded, breaking John out of his thoughts. The crowd shrieked with glee as the latest opponent lay waste to the Sands, the victor allowed a standing applause. The gates groaned as the soldiers re-opened the locks; a blood soaked Sulvius striving forth. The man wore a manic expression; lips pulled back in a feral smile that showed teeth stained with his own blood. John tensed, golden eyes clouded with rising memories, but the Champion was too engrossed with his victory.

The last months had been hard on John. He had evaded Sulvius' attempts of rape much to the mans rage. It had stopped, allowing John time to recover sleep but after, he had noticed that the young boy Amicus had bruises adorning his body. The boy seemed to ghost through the men, eyes downcast, refusing contact from anyone, including John himself. Gallus then confirmed John's fear that the boy had been taken in by Sulvius. John had pushed his way to the offending man and struck Sulvius with all the hatred he could muster. After the uproar, John was punished to a cell without food or water. He was allotted ten lashes but the pain seemed a small price to pay for the grief the boy had had to endure. The next morning, news of Amicus' death spread throughout the gladiators. He had hung himself, Gallus had said, for he no longer had the strength to fight. It was then that the golden eyed warrior swore the oath that on the Sands he would strike Sulvius down, leaving his soul for the Undertaker.

Watching the man covered with his brethren's blood, John felt the bull of rage stampede throughout his being. He had this battle to fight and then he would face Sulvius. This was the day he would bring the boys soul to peace. This was the day to which all of Rome would know his name.

*O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"By all the Gods, don't be so boring; smile for the crowd." Moriarty grinned, intoxicated by the peoples need for violence. The air was thick with the aroma of women, wine and human odor. Two new gladiators had entered the ring, the horn sounding for their battle to begin.

Sherlock snorted, brows furrowed in distaste. He had been studying Moriarty these past months, trying to deduct what plans the man had for Rome, yet nothing drew attention to any sort of scandal. It had been time away from John, much to the youths displeasure. But Moriarty seemed to have lost interest of John, which did little to ease Sherlocks suspicions. Once Moriarty had found something to interest his fantasies, he was never one to let go.

"I do not care for such disgusting company who care only for themselves and for the blood spilled on the Sands." Sherlock hissed quietly.

"Yet here you are, waiting for your man to fight in the Arena for all those disgusting creatures."

"Only to fight for honour and to have you grovelling at my feet."

"Without me, Sherlock, you are nothing."

"Hardly."

"We are alike, you and I," the dark haired man sighed as a slave massaged his shoulders. "But you are the boring one. Such a shame really."

"It seems you've wormed your way into Rome." Sherlock noted calmly. He did not want to have that conversation. Again.

"Ah, magnificent isn't it, Rome; such a wondrous city filled with sin."

"Managed to bribe every elite member-"

"A city with so much potential-"

"- to work your schemes." Sherlock waved away the slave offering him fruit. He could feel anger welling inside of him.

"Well every person has their pressure points. But schemes? I am highly offended!" Moriarty clutched his chest mockingly, eyes wide in spurious horror.

"So how are you going to do it?"

"Does this have something to do with you following me throughout the city?"

Sherlock turned to look at the man sitting beside his person. Those dark eyes were unreadable, lips holding a small grin.

"You are adorable; following me around Rome. Reminds me of the good old days; you chasing after me, oh and the sex-"

"You fucking bastard. What do you plan to do? Burn me?" Sherlock calmly asked, eyes as cold as the sea.

"Heaven's no."

"You have wealth, power. Why come to the city?"

"Let's just say I got bored of common society. Ah, now the fun is about to begin. My Gladiator against-"

The blare of horns cut through Moriarty's words, drowning out his voice. The people roared out a name that caused Sherlock to cease breath. _John_. Gray eyes turned to the Sands to see his Gladiator stride to the centre, face grim with determination.

*.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John strode towards the centre of the Arena, feet hot upon the golden sand. He could feel the sweat bead on his his neck, the breeze raising goosebumps. His heart hammering in his chest, the golden eyed man surveyed the masses. The stone Colosseum was filled with bodies; some fully clothes, some topless with wine spilling from open mouths as they shouted out into the sky. Never had John Watson been in the presents of such numbers. He took a deep breath, willing his mind to focus in on the task at hand. _Survive_.

He felt a shiver run down his spine. Turning he looked up towards one of the balconies. His breath caught in his throat. _Sherlock_. The youth sat up high, wearing a dark sapphire robe decorated with white. A gold crown weaved itself artfully throughout the mass of ebony curls, kissing the locks. His eyes bore down at John; a thundercloud of emotion, but then settled down, unreadable as always. John exhaled. He must survive. No matter what.

He tore his gaze away as the gate opposite opened. John felt blood run cold. A man, no less then six feet, crossed the sands with arms like the trunks of trees. He bellowed and the crowd screeched their approvals. Horns blasted, drums sounded from the tops of the Colosseum. John gripped the two swords in his fists, nostrils flaring. The arena announcer shouted the second name. Golem.

John bit his lip, praying to the Gods above as the giant charged, spear and sword in hand. With a twist John plunged to the right, spinning to avoid the sword aimed for his side. He felt the air touch his hip; blade narrowly missing flesh. The Golem was built like a demon; muscle scarred with old battle wounds, veins bulging from the neck and hands the size of boulders.

With a grunt, John pivoted. The cold metal danced with him, biting into the Golem's leg. The giant reacted by striking his leg back, catching John in the thigh. Suppressing a groan John rolled, missing the jab of the spear aimed for his throat. The weapon felt heavy as John stood, blood dripping from the tip. With a cry, the taller man surged, madly cutting his blade across. They fought, each cutting into flesh as blood began to stain the earth. John swore as the spear grazed his cheek. _Too close_. A deep rumble exploded from John as he ducked, bringing his two sword in close. The metal tore through the sartorius muscle; the giant landing on one knee, his muscle now severed completely. John drove the blade deeper, blood spattering his chest. He managed to retract one blade before the other man threw him back.

The golden eyed warrior coughed on impact, the earth hot and relentless. He struggled to his feet, eyes never leaving the furious visage of the giant. With a cry so loud it shook the very Colosseum, the Golem struggled upright ignoring the red pooling beneath his feet. John flexed his arms, sword ready. A soft breath of silence, the faint cry of birds from above and the sudden explosion of sound was all John needed. He rushed, dropped and slid on his legs down under the larger Gladiator, severing the ligaments in the leg. With a motion so fast, the warrior spun and drove his steel into the back of the Golem. What John didn't anticipate was the spear that drove deep into his shoulder.

A cry ripped past the blond's lips, as the Golem gurgled a blood filled laugh. John felt the tears form. He gripped the spear, attempting to free himself. The giant, managed a grin before falling unto the sands his eyes unseeing into the sun.


End file.
